The Emrys Strain
by wryter501
Summary: "I don't believe Mordred is the mastermind of the attack. Someone else is responsible. Someone with funding and connections…" The once and future court of Camelot is reconvened in the 21st Century, with new objectives... and new enemies. Sequel to A Once and Future Destiny.
1. Chapter 1

**Recap: **Reunion of Camelot's court – Arthur, Gwen, Merlin, Gaius, Leon, Gwaine, and Percival - accomplished in "Once and Future Destiny" just in time for Merlin to uncover a terrorist plot involving drones and bombs and a hacker named "Mordred". Arthur and the others must show trust and patience to Merlin - whose memories and magic are suppressed but struggling to emerge – in the days of investigation and the climactic stand against the terrorist threat.

**Chapter 1: Outside Camelot's Boundaries**

"Again?" Merlin said. "Is this really necessary?"

"Hold still, Merlin," his grandfather ordered. "The more you move, the more it will hurt."

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, a bit of an old Goldie Hawn/Chevy Chase movie playing in his mind, Goldie gasping out an explanation of defense against an attacker in her apartment _– I stabbed him with the needles_!

"Do you want me to hold your hand?" Arthur's tone was amused, condescending. The king of Camelot didn't turn an eyelash at the thought of needles. Merlin hated needles. He opened his eyes to glare at Arthur as Gaius tied a rubber ribbon impossibly tight around Merlin's upper arm. "Come on," the golden-haired king teased, "don't be such a _girl_."

Merlin clamped his jaw shut. And his eyes. _Oh – narcotics, Brian Dennehy said, the epitome of a tough, jaded police detective. No – _knitting_, Goldie whined_. The alcohol swab was cold and sudden against the inside of his elbow, and he couldn't help jumping. Arthur laughed softly, from his perch on the nearest of Gaius' lab tables. Merlin opened his eyes to send his friend another murderous look –

"Just a pinch," Gaius warned, and Merlin's whole body seized as the needle pierced his skin, entered his vein. Forgetting Arthur, he watched in sick fascination as his blood began to fill the clear plastic vial. _Ye gods_, sometimes he thought the field of medicine had gotten more barbaric in 1500 years, not less.

Although, he didn't have to clean Gaius' leech tank, anymore. That was a plus.

Merlin couldn't seem to look away from the red liquid as Gaius snapped off the vial and began to fill another one, but Arthur didn't find the process as riveting. He kicked his expensive shoes absently in Merlin's peripheral vision, then jumped down, crossed to the back counter, began to finger glassware. "Did the police ever get back to you on the break-in last week?" Arthur asked.

Gaius snorted. "Vandals, they said. A couple of young men enjoying meaningless destruction." Merlin felt his grandfather's glance, felt him wondering about Merlin's own past record. He didn't look up.

A moment later, Arthur cleared his throat and wandered away down the rows of glass-fronted cabinets containing lab equipment. "It was a mess," he agreed mildly. "Did you get everything replaced?"

"Yes, your father was very gracious about the expense," Gaius said, and Merlin glanced up at the old man's face, able to read his grandfather's feelings more closely than his words betrayed to the former king. "Unfortunately – and I do apologize, Merlin – the samples also need to be replaced."

"So what am I now, an experiment?" Merlin said, at the same time as Arthur remarked, "You make him sound like a science project."

Gaius grunted and snapped the third of three filled vials shut. He reached for a blob of cotton, sliding the needle from Merlin's arm while holding the cotton to the tiny insertion point in his skin. Though Merlin experienced immediate relief that the sharp foreign object was no longer under his skin – _nothing compared to a Saxon's crossbow bolt_, Merlin reminded himself, _and the arrow nothing in comparison to a serket's stinger_ – he could do nothing for the dizziness and nausea. He unclamped his hands from the arms of the chair, leaving wet marks of sweat on the tan leather as Gaius wrapped a bit of purple sticky-tape around the piece of cotton. Merlin dried his hands on the legs of his jeans, and pulled down the sleeve of his dark blue sweater.

"What are you going to do with that?" Arthur asked, sauntering back to them with a smirk for Merlin's less-than-composed state.

Gaius fit the vials into a frame that held them vertical and pushed the tray to the back of the counter. "I did manage to run tests with the previous sample to see if the additional vaccines required by foreign travel may have any negative affect on Merlin – even ordinary people sometimes have adverse reactions to vaccines for yellow fever, typhoid, smallpox, and the like. If Agent Chance wants you to travel as he has mentioned – well, it's best to be prepared. Forewarned is forearmed, after all." Merlin opened his mouth to ask what the results of those tests were – of course he wouldn't be classified with _normal_ people - and what else Gaius planned to do with the second round of blood samples.

"Speaking of Chance," Arthur said, shooting his cuff so he could check his watch, "we need to get going if we want to have time for lunch with Percival and Kathryn before our appointment. We'll be back in Camelot before five, I'm pretty sure."

"Give my regards to Percival and Kathryn," Gaius called after them as they left the lab, and Merlin waved to show he'd heard.

Outside, the October wind was cool enough to make stepping into the passenger seat of Arthur's Mustang a relief. The leaves were coming down, except for the oak leaves, which would hang grimly on until January, probably. Arthur pulled on to highway 295 north, and Merlin settled in for the fifty-minute drive.

"So – vandalism," Arthur said. He wasn't as subtle as he thought he was.

"Too bad," Merlin said.

Arthur looked at him. "It's something you have a little experience with, I hear," he remarked.

Merlin snorted. "Gaius told you that?"

"Well, what happened?"

He slouched further down in his seat til the belt pulled at his hips, and crossed his arms over his chest. He could refuse, and get away with it, he thought. Arthur wouldn't push for details – _this_ Arthur wouldn't push for details. But he might always _wonder_. "Last day of school, eighth grade," he said. "We were in the art room, watching a movie til school let out. I was sitting in the back." _ I was _always_ sitting in the back…_ "When the teacher turned the lights back on, every cabinet was open, every paint bottle emptied, every container of glitter overturned…" He gave Arthur a wide grin. "There was pink on the ceiling."

Arthur was silent for many minutes, just driving, eyes on the road. "You were as surprised as anyone, but no one believed you didn't do it," he guessed.

"Didn't matter much," Merlin shrugged. "There was no formal charges. Just spent the first month of my summer break cleaning the art room." _And packing to move to a new foster family…_

"What movie was it?" Arthur said.

"Don't remember," Merlin answered immediately. Arthur looked at him, hearing the lie, and Merlin reconsidered. He had promised himself not to lie to Arthur anymore. He said reluctantly, "It was _Dragonheart_."

Arthur made an ironic noise, shook his head. Merlin wrapped his arms more tightly around his ribs – _Don't pity me, don't pity me_… But Arthur said, returning to the core issue of discussion, "You don't think you could –"

"Help find who did it?" Merlin said. "No, I told Gaius that the first day." They'd stood in Dr. Gus' office, watching through the big glass window as workers in Hazmat suits cleaned up the broken glass and spilled liquids.

Arthur slid in a Linkin Park cd, which was fine with Merlin. He didn't feel like talking, anymore. Fifty-two minutes later, they pulled to a stop at the Reece Road main gate to show their drivers' licences and the vehicle registration and insurance. Getting a single-day permit, they drove to the Applebee's on the military post, and were only five minutes late to meet Percival and Kathryn for lunch.

They noticed Arthur and Merlin weaving toward them between tables and chairs, and both stood. Percival's digital-camo ACU's somehow made him look bigger than he usually did, and Kathryn glowed in dark jeans and a full-necked black sweater. Merlin looked at her again as she took Arthur's hand in greeting, the brunette smiling and happy and – _glowing_. There was something _new_ about her, something Merlin could not quite place – though Gwen probably could, a new haircut or a handbag or something – but when Kathryn's hand touched his in greeting, her brown eyes sparkling, he _knew_.

"Good to see you, sire," Percival was saying to Arthur. "How's things in Camelot?"

Kathryn, already used to her husband's friends calling the one named Arthur _sire_, simply rolled her eyes at what she believed was a joke, a play on the coincidence of names. She resumed her seat, Percival assisting her before straddling his own chair. Merlin, still a little giddy from the touch of her hand, tripped over one of the legs of his own chair, before he managed to land more or less in his seat.

"Dr. Gus said to say hi," Arthur said, and launched into a description of the work he was doing with Leon and Gwaine in the new department he'd wrangled permission from his father to start.

The waitress stood behind Merlin to take their orders, and he managed to mumble something about Coke and a burger. _Do _not_ stare at Percival's wife_, he told himself fiercely, ducking his head. But he couldn't help glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

That glow was so warm, so inviting, so comforting. It reminded him of sitting on his mother's lap while she talked on the phone to his father, far away… the way she smelled when he turned his face into her neck, the way her voice trembled with tears and her attempt to sound cheerful for the husband who was half a world away in a war zone. It reminded him of winter evenings huddled in a tiny drafty cottage, the firelight on Hunith's face, the wonder and pride in her eyes as he conjured dragons, horses, frogs from the flame – anything and everything to distract and amuse his first mother.

He reached into his satchel for his cell phone, snapped a pic before any of the others noticed him. He watched how Percival's attention was focused mostly on Arthur – not excluding his wife, just making Arthur's news and comments a priority for both of them for a time. _She hasn't told him yet_, Merlin realized.

He watched Kathryn enter into the conversation with the other two men, her face animated, teasing, concerned as she asked about Gwen and Gwen's brother Allen, at sea with the Navy in the Pacific.

She_ doesn't know yet_. Merlin couldn't stop his smile, no matter how goofy it felt on his face.

Arthur noticed. "Enjoying your cheeseburger, Merlin?" he asked, amused.

Merlin hadn't even noticed their plates had been delivered. "Yes, it's excellent," he responded, picking it up to take his first bite. Not even Arthur's snide remarks could dim the brilliance of this unique secret.

"Well, some of us are now able to order from an _adult_ menu," Arthur went on, indicating his mushroom-smothered sirloin, then Percival's oblong plateful of glazed ribs.

"Since last week," Merlin murmured in retaliation.

"Oh, stop it," Kathryn said, taking a bite of her salad and beaming. "Leave him alone for once, Arthur."

"If I did that, he'd worry something was wrong with me," Arthur protested.

Merlin nodded agreement, breaking his sandwich. "I really would," he said.

Arthur snapped his fingers, pointing at Merlin. "Aladdin," he said.

"What?" Percival asked.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Gw – ah, Gavin's latest game of Let's Compare," he said. "Last month it was superheroes. Now it's cartoon characters. Arthur is – obviously – Prince Charming, Gwen is Cinderella."

Kathryn giggled, where once she might have protested chauvinism on Gwen's behalf. She, of course, didn't know that Gwen actually _had_ been a maid, and Arthur actually a prince. "Gavin is ridiculous," she said. "Who does he think he is, then?"

"Sinbad," Arthur answered. "He figures he 'rocks the whole rogue-pirate thing.'"

"Thinks he could get a _goddess_ to fall for him," Merlin added. "Or at least outsmart her with his 'charm and heart of gold'."

"And – Aladdin?" Percival asked Arthur.

"The way he broke his bread reminded me," Arthur defended, but Merlin said, "Riff-raff, street rat."

"Oh, no!" Kathryn protested, still giggling.

"The way he always manages to come out on top," Arthur tried to explain. "He takes on a whole raft of guards…"

"Nah," Percival said. "If anything, he's probably the genie." There was a moment of silence. Merlin shivered. A tiny frown line appeared between Arthur's brows, and Percival looked like he wished he would have bitten his tongue.

"Oh, that's even worse," Kathryn said. "There's nothing big and blue about Merlin but his eyes."

Arthur snorted, Percival snickered, and Merlin felt his ears heat up. Percival said, "What about us, then? Me and Kathryn?"

Merlin blurted, "One hundred and one Dalmatians."

"What?" All three looked at him with surprise.

"You know, the parent Dalmatians, what were their names?" Merlin began to babble.

"Pongo and Perdita," Kathryn said. She wasn't laughing at him anymore.

"Yeah, with, like, ninety-nine kids." Now Merlin wanted to bite his own tongue. That glow of hers just reached out and captured him, made him a little punch-drunk on the miracle of life. "Percival – Peter – Perce – he's great with kids, you know, Gw – Gavin said he once saw him carry three kids –" He stumbled to a halt. That memory belonged to another lifetime.

"Merlin," Arthur said, a little too sharply for casual conversation.

"Yeah, Arthur?" Merlin winced.

"_Shut up_."

Merlin managed to finish his lunch without saying another word, except goodbye to Percival and Kathryn, as sweet as ever. Arthur said nothing to him as they drove to the NSA building, and the glow faded.

They were ushered along a raised hallway that ran the length of one wall, separated by a handrail from the rest of the room, an open floor plan checkered with desks and workstations, almost all of which contained either a flurry of busyness or a grim-faced individual motionless before one or more computer screens. Merlin felt his blood stir. Any one of those people might benefit from his skills, his – magic. Any one of them might be closing in on a threat or eliminating suspicion from someone innocent – and he could help. He could –

He gripped the strap of his messenger bag, forcing his eyes back to the heels of Arthur's shoes in front of him. Nothing had changed in 1500 years. He _could_ help, yes. But he had to prioritize. He had to use his gift with caution. He had to admit that most, if not all, of these people would resent his help. His skill. His magic. They would resent his youth, his unorthodox methods. And if they suspected the truth – hate and fear. Last lifetime – and this.

He was so busy trying to avoid catching the attention of anyone working on the office floor that he stopped two seconds too late to avoid treading on Arthur's heels and bumping into his back. "Sorry," he muttered swiftly, stepping back in embarrassment, but this Arthur simply cleared his throat pointedly, and didn't make any rude comments about Merlin's clumsiness or inattention.

"Gibson," said the low-level flunky assigned to walk them to Chance's office. "Arthur Drake and Marvin Caroban."

"Come on in," Chance's voice came from the interior of the office.

Merlin tried to catch the flunky's eyes to smile a thank-you for the service he'd shown, but the man simply turned on his heel without a second glance for either young man from Camelot, as though they were beneath his notice. Merlin slipped through the door behind Arthur, who was shaking Agent Chance's hand. "Good to see you again, Arthur," the older man said, his demeanor, as always, very serious.

"Likewise," Arthur responded.

Chance's gaze moved over Arthur's shoulder to linger curiously on Merlin, who avoided him and perched uncomfortably on the guest-chair furthest away from Chance's desk. It wasn't that he disliked Gibson Chance – no, the man was a professional, very good at what he did, but without an ounce of arrogance. He was just too – curious, for Merlin's comfort. He reminded Merlin, in a little way, of Aredian. The Witchfinder. His eyes said he guessed more than expected, and suspected more than was healthy. _You have secrets_, his eyes said. There would be no chains, no torture, no threats – no exposure to a lethal monarch… but no indication of what he _would_ do with such knowledge, either. The uncertainty made Merlin uneasy.

"As you know, we've had the hacker known as Mordred in custody for several months now," Chance began, turning away from Merlin to turn on the small tv on the top shelf of his bookcase, at right angles to the desk. He picked up the remote and backed up to lean on the desk, the navy blue suit jacket that matched his trousers falling open from his white shirt casually. Arthur took the other guest-chair, closer to the tv and a little in front of Merlin. The screen looked down on a small, bare room where a skinny man with bulging eyes and an orange jumpsuit twitched at the cuffs connecting him loosely to his chair.

Chance hit _Pause_ on the remote and turned back to them. "We've been interrogating him on the identity of his co-conspirators," he explained. "We're confident that we've caught most of the terrorists involved in your drone plot, but Mordred is vain – he's proud of his work. He wants to be admired, wants to brag. So we let him brag, lead him on – then do our best to sift fact from fiction."

Merlin stared at the screen instead of the NSA agent. Mordred's head was down, his hair shaved just about off, his skull showing pink and vulnerable. His hands were small, almost delicate, his nose crooked and too large for his face. He could have been twenty-two, or forty-two. His ugliness made it hard to tell.

There had been similarities between him and the original Mordred. Just a twist of time and place might have had Merlin running from the guards, desperate and alone and scared. Growing up in the forest, always hungry, always moving camp, always fearing the next raid – allying himself with scum to stay alive, ready to spew illogical hate at those who hurt him. Ready to betray – and murder.

He felt Arthur's eyes on him, but didn't meet his friend's gaze. He was not, after all, that much different from this Mordred either, was he? It could have been him, hacking into Camelot's files and records and programs, stealing information for his own gain…

Chance's voice interrupted his thoughts, "No luck identifying him by fingerprints, DNA, or dental records," he declared, a note of regret apparent. "We assume that he-"

"Those records are easy enough to hack," Merlin mumbled, and Chance's eyes were on him again.

The agent nodded. "Yes – he would have erased himself from the system quite thoroughly, wouldn't he?" The words seemed, to Merlin, to hold a double meaning, and he flinched from the man's piercing gaze, wishing he'd finished what he started, two years ago in Seattle, hacking into the database to erase himself. Wondering if it wasn't still worth doing, sooner rather than later. "He's given evidence on each of the six terrorist teams," Chance continued. "Enough for complete confirmation of our suspicions – though not a man of any arrested at the sites is saying word one."

"So you got what you needed," Arthur said, sounding pleased. Agent Chance nodded. "Then – why is our presence here necessary today? I was under the impression that we would be allowed to question him also, face to face?"

Chance hesitated a fraction of a second. "We decided that would be unwise," he said. "Mordred has developed quite an antipathy toward Marvin." They both looked at Merlin, who couldn't stop a sardonic smile. _Of course_ Mordred had an antipathy toward Merlin. That feeling was entirely mutual. Mordred's rogue drone had almost taken Arthur's life.

"We?" Arthur asked, over a light knock sounding on the door.

"Come," Chance said, and they all looked up as another suited agent stepped through the door – thirty-ish, just as golden-haired as Arthur, with an air of arrogance to rival the former prince – Merlin couldn't help thinking, _do you know how to walk on your knees?_ "This is one of the members of my team, Royce Frederick," Chance introduced them. Frederick, instead of extending a welcoming hand, simply nodded at both of them, kept his attention on Chance, dismissing their importance relative to the older man. "He handled much of the questioning of the subject. For the moment, just watch," Chance instructed. He glanced down at the remote to locate the _Play_ button, then raised his eyes to the screen.

Within seconds, it became clear that the video of this interrogation session was muted. The three of them sat in silence and studied Mordred's body language. Without thinking, Merlin began to whistle quietly between his teeth, as a random habit he'd acquired to help focus concentration.

_ Moon River, wider than a mile/ I'm crossing you in style… someday… Two drifters, off to see the world/ There's such a lot of world… to see…_

"He's not –" Arthur said slowly. "He's not… a leader. He's not… clever, intuitive…he's reacting to the questions, not anticipating… he's not … brilliant enough to think of this on his own." Royce Frederick snorted, but said nothing.

_ We're after the same… rainbow's end… waiting round the bend…_ Merlin slipped his laptop from his satchel, opened it to a word processor program, and began typing, his eyes on the television screen.

"He's socially awkward," Arthur continued, as if he was talking to himself – or just to Merlin – speaking his thoughts aloud before they were assembled in coherent order. "He's not comfortable with another person in the room with him… He wouldn't have the connections necessary, he wouldn't inspire the trust necessary… for hard-core terrorists."

_My huckleberry friend_… Merlin watched Mordred's hands dance nervously on the table in front of him, fingers tapping, raggedly-bitten nails flashing…

"He's a tool. He's an employee," Arthur said. "He's working for someone else – can you rewind that last bit? With the sound? He just said –"

Agent Chance wordlessly complied, and Mordred's voice flooded into the room, reedy, sneering, "Came-lot Industries? Yeah, of course… I know all about _them_."

"He never heard of us before," Arthur said, over onscreen Frederick's next question. "They way he said _Camelot_ – came lot… then why would he choose to be known as _Mordred_…"

"Thomas Drake," Mordred hissed, onscreen, thick eyelids dropping over bulbous eyes. "Thomas Drake… yeah. Anything to bring _him_ down. I've heard stories –" He shut his teeth with a snap.

"He refused to say anything after that," Frederick commented, as Chance found the _Stop_ button on the remote.

"Let it play," Merlin interrupted. "Is there any more footage after this – let it play." The image sprang back to life – "Rewind a moment, please?" The image reversed motion, then picked up again… _"I've heard stories_…" Merlin watched closely, three more seconds. Mordred glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room, clutched his manacled hands together, then hid them beneath the edge of the table. Frederick's shoulder partially obscured the line of sight, then Mordred was freed from the chair, and escorted out.

Chance stopped the video, reached to turn off the television. "I had the same impressions," Chance told Arthur mildly. He glanced at Frederick and his lips twitched in a tiny smile. "Though it is a minority opinion." Frederick huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, but did not contradict the man Merlin assumed to be his superior. Chance continued, "I don't believe Mordred is the mastermind of the attack. Someone else is responsible. Someone with funding and connections…"

"Sir, I must respectfully reiterate, there is absolutely no hard evidence –" Frederick said with a martyr's air, chopping the air in front of him with one hand.

"Someone," Arthur realized, interrupting the younger agent, "whose enemy is not _Camelot_, but _Thomas Drake_. Someone who might have told him to use the alias _Mordred_." Merlin glanced up, startled, as Arthur and Gibson Chance shared a look.

"Do you know of any personal enemies your father might have? might have made over the years?" Chance said. Frederick rolled his eyes, and Merlin decided that the younger agent reminded him of Agravaine.

Arthur shook his head slowly. "No, he never discussed – those kinds of problems."

"Xander," Merlin said, and all three men looked at him. It gave him a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that two such men should listen to him – and conversely, that someone like Royce Frederick should immediately scoff. He flexed his fingers in midair, mimicking the action of the hacker's hands. "He was typing."

"Typing," Frederick said derisively.

"Typing," Chance repeated, while Arthur turned a small proud smile on Merlin. "What did he say – er, write?" the agent asked.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry," Merlin said, glancing at the screen of his laptop, where he'd duplicated Mordred's phantom keystrokes. "I failed you I'm sorry – some more self-recrimination, begging for forgiveness – there at the end it's _but Xander_…" He glanced up warily at the others. If they wanted to see the whole thing, they'd see the threats Mordred made against Camelot's own computer wizard. "That's all."

Arthur clapped his hand on Merlin's knee just below the laptop, making him jump. "Well _done_, Merlin."

Even Frederick's silent, mockingly-mouthed repetition of the phrase could not dampen the rush of joy Merlin felt at his sovereign's praise. Just like that. After four months… and ten _years_.

"Xander," Chance said, taking Arthur's attention away from Merlin, who couldn't quite stifle a sigh. _And so it goes… and so it goes_…

"Do you know who that is?" Arthur said. "Can you find out?"

"That would be a waste of agency resources," Frederick protested. "Chasing illusions based on the word of a –" He flapped his hand in Merlin's direction, evidently not sure what label to give him.

"Yes, unfortunately, it would take some time and effort to get clearance for someone to work on that. And it depends on whether Xander is a last name, or a first name," Agent Chance murmured thoughtfully, ignoring his fellow agent, slapping the remote in his hand. "Or an alias." He glanced at the now-blank tv screen.

"Like Mordred," Arthur said. There was silence for the space of time it took for the same idea to occur to both men. They turned and simultaneously looked at Merlin.

"Could _you_ find Xander?" Arthur asked him, as though Chance was no longer in the room. And Frederick wasn't, either, opening the door to exit, disgruntled.

"I can try," Merlin said, feeling a pinch of anxiety that stemmed from an inordinate desire to succeed and please his king, his friend, and an utterly irrational fear that he would fail. He looked away from Arthur and repeated, more grimly, "I can try."

**A/N: Ok, so here's the first chapter of the sequel that some have requested. I intend 15 or so chapters, again, not sure yet as to chapter length or update time. I think every other day is probably an insane expectation (I put upon myself) so maybe 3-4 days? Also I will switch between Merlin's POV and Arthur's, which will be a change from Once and Future Destiny – hopefully everyone is okay with that. I hesitated because Merlin just **_**thinks**_** so much more than Arthur, I wasn't sure I could get it right… I guess we'll see?...**

**Also, here are the name changes, just to remind you:**

**Gaius (Dr. Augustus "Gus" Sagesse); Merlin (Marvin Caroban); Percival (Peter Spiers); Gwaine (Gavin Kraft); Elyan (Allen Bell); Uther (Thomas Drake); Gwen Bell and Arthur Drake.**


	2. The Eagle and the Bear

**Chapter 2: The Eagle and the Bear**

Arthur leaned his desk chair back from the circular table in the middle of the room of their new department, bouncing it slightly, waiting for Leon and Gwaine to arrive. Merlin, of course, was already present, at his new desk in the corner - that piece of furniture dwarfed by the complicated computer system draped, stacked, and arranged around and beside it – hunched over the central keyboard.

Now and again, Arthur caught a stray gleam of gold from Merlin's eyes. He wondered idly if Merlin was one-hundred-percent conscious of it every single time he did magic. Just now the radio on Arthur's desk, in the corner of the room opposite Merlin's, played very low, almost too low to hear, Judy Garland's famous lyrics for "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Arthur never switched his radio away from harder rock stations. And the others knew not to touch Arthur's things.

_ Way up high, there's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby… Skies are blue/ And the dreams that you dare to dream/ Really do come true…_

Arthur wondered if the choice of song reflected Merlin's attempt to pierce the cyber-cloud surrounding Mordred's identity, or if maybe it bespoke a deeper desire from the sorcerer's subconscious. _Someday I'll wish upon a star/ And wake up where the clouds are far behind me… _

"Slow going, Merlin?" Arthur asked. It was still a little odd to see that intense scowl on his friend's face, rather than a wide, irreverent grin. _Where troubles melt like lemon drops/ Away above the chimney tops … That's where you'll find me…_

Merlin grunted. "Chance was right," he said shortly. "Mordred has erased himself. But – there's video footage stored electronically. Airport security, ATM cams… I'm trying to backtrack from Belgium, see if I can pick anything up for the NSA on his real identity." _If birds fly over the rainbow, why oh why can't I?_

"It's a big country," Arthur allowed, not knowing whether to be amused or astounded at the sorcerer's self-appointed task.

Merlin's lips twitched. "It's a big _world_," he murmured, glanced at a secondary screen to the side.

"I'm going to talk to my father this afternoon," Arthur said. "See if we can get some idea who Xander is." Merlin cocked an eyebrow at him. Arthur sighed, and confessed, "He's been busy. No time for – idle chitchat."

"Still blames you for losing that Defense contract?" Merlin asked.

Arthur snorted his answer as Leon pushed the door open in that cautious/respectful way he had, assessing who was present in the room and whether he was welcome or interrupting, even though the desk in the third corner of the room bore the name _Leon Tweed_. The radio hissed a second of static, then fell silent.

"Sire," Leon said, coming into the room.

"Morning, Leon," Arthur said, and Merlin glanced up to echo him. "It's Wednesday, so –"

Gwaine barged in behind Leon. "Hump day!" he interrupted enthusiastically. Merlin snickered in the corner, Arthur just rolled his eyes. "Morning, princess," Gwaine went on cheerfully. "Had your coffee yet?"

"Meeting, Gwaine," Arthur reminded him. "Every week, at the same time –"

"In the same place," Gwaine finished, gesturing around the room – the small circular table in the middle of the room, their four desks in the corners. He collapsed into his own chair, leaning it so deeply back the springs protested. Arthur caught his reconsidered inclination to put his feet up on the table, and smiled to himself. At least Gwaine could learn some things.

"Joining us, Merlin?" Leon said mildly.

"Yeah," Merlin said vaguely, glued to his screen. He waved one hand in their direction. "Give me a minute."

Gwaine rolled his eyes. They all knew that Merlin hadn't gained any better a sense of time in this lifetime than he'd possessed before. Only now, they all knew it was because he had more important things on his mind than punctuality.

"Old business," Arthur said. "Leon, you got that report on the Canines for Kids project?"

Leon leaned back and snagged a folder from the top of his neatly-organized desk. "I've got the highlights of my interview with that trainer in Columbus, as well as a compendium of the relevant regulations from the U.S. Department of Education. Next week I have an appointment with the vice chairman of the Alexandria school board, to negotiate the terms of a trial period." Arthur let Leon go on, speaking earnestly in description of his work, reminding Arthur and Gwaine – as if they needed it – that not only would the safety dog deter those contemplating violence, but would also build long-lasting and life-changing relationships with the kids of the school the way metal detectors and guards could not. Even Gwaine didn't interrupt.

_Camelot Securities_, Arthur thought. The department he'd finally argued his father into allowing him to initiate. Four employees so far – himself as head of the department, and Leon and Gwaine promoted from their respective positions. And Merlin, permanently borrowed from IT, though he was still considered their asset, he had far more freedom now to work beyond the strict company guidelines.

Leon concluded with his hope that the project would be ready for implementation the following fall semester. For a moment no one spoke, remembering, maybe, as Arthur did, that in a year, Thomas Drake would re-evaluate Camelot Securities – and shut them down if he wasn't pleased with their success.

"Better than driving around in Uther Pendragon's car with Uther Pendragon in the backseat, isn't it, Leon?" Gwaine teased.

"Hell, yes," Leon said abruptly. "Sorry, Arthur."

Merlin sniggered from his corner, and Arthur fired a pencil at the sorcerer without thinking, hitting him on the side of the face. "Something _amusing_, Merlin?" he said. "Care to share with the rest of the class?"

After the time it took for a breath to be indrawn and exhaled, Merlin turned to him with a sarcastic grin that didn't – quite – reach his eyes. "Of course not, Arthur," he said. And if anyone else felt that the banter was just slightly _off_, Arthur couldn't tell it.

Before Arthur could decide whether or not to apologize, or what else to do to regain the balance between friendly insults and the real thing, Leon said, "I mean, I'm enjoying the freedom of making my own decisions and schedule."

"Never mind, Leon," Arthur said. "We all know what you mean." He made another attempt to tease Merlin back into his customarily cheery mood, "Join us or pipe down, _Mer_lin." The sorcerer turned silently back to his work.

Arthur sighed. "Next item – Gwaine, do you have those statistics from Reagan airport security?"

Gwaine fished his smart-phone from his pocket, keying to where he'd stored the data. "Sure do," he said. "And I'm telling you, I agree with Leon about appreciating freedom, but – air_port_ food is only slightly better than air_plane_ food."

"They serve alcohol," Merlin murmured in a singsong voice, and Arthur felt a single lightning stab of – no, it wasn't jealousy.

Gwaine grinned, and only tried halfheartedly to hide it when he met Arthur's stern look. "Well, anyway," he said, and read off his list of relevant statistics based on two weeks' sifted data – mostly compiled by Merlin – and one week's worth of personal observation. "Yesterday I spoke to Rick Hennessy in Product Development, and they're interested in researching the terahertz lasers. They said, give them the rest of the week to run the numbers, and we can meet sometime Monday to iron out the details."

Arthur's eyes were on Merlin while Gwaine was talking, the glow on the sorcerer's face from the computer screen painting his skin a pale green. Since their release from the hospital back in June, when the sixth of the hijacked drones tried to drill its way through the building, they'd busied themselves with interviews with various agencies, details of building reconstruction, the fallout over the lost DoD contract, starting this department – and, he had to admit it, with romantic relationships.

_You're comfortable with who you are now, the changes that a second life in a new century have made… Merlin may feel awkward, unsure – he will need time to adjust_, Gaius had said. Arthur meant to keep an eye on his young friend, and remembered, occasionally, to ask Merlin about his welfare. He only caught a glimpse, now and then, to make him suspect that Merlin had not assimilated his recovered memories quite so seamlessly as the rest of them had – and as Merlin himself might have wished them to believe.

The phone relegated to the floor by Merlin's left foot warbled, and he reached absently to pick it up as his right hand was still occupied with the keyboard. "H'lo," he said. "Hey, Carol. Yeah – no, nothing that can't wait. Mary's computer? Sure, I can take a look… Bye."

The young sorcerer stood from his chair, stretching to his full height. "Gotta go," he said lightly, giving them his wide grin. "See you around." He slipped around the door and was gone.

The room seemed quieter without him, emptier. Arthur frowned after his friend, and a moment passed before Leon said, "What is it, Arthur?"

If he opened his mouth and said, _I'm worried about Merlin_, he knew what would happen. Gwaine would tell Percival, Leon might talk to Gaius, who'd mention it to Gwen, who'd discuss it with her brother, and Merlin would feel smothered in the excess of friendly concern from all of them. If he said, _please don't tell the others_, Leon and Gwaine would keep it to themselves, but the shared worry would _sharpen_ from the secrecy.

"Can't put my finger on it," he mused, then realized something. "Leon, you were older than Merlin when you started work for my father, weren't you?" And Percival and Lancelot at least eighteen years old when they'd met in basic training for the Army. "What did you think about your dreams?"

Leon thought about his answer for several grave minutes. "At first I thought they were just vivid dreams," he said. "But after a few months, my father told me he was proud at how I'd seemed to grow up recently – taking more responsibility, being more dependable, raising my grades… and I decided, even if they were nothing but dreams, the training of a knight that I relived would not be unnecessary for the sort of man I wished to grow up to be." Leon met Arthur's eyes without self-consciousness. "I didn't believe or disbelieve them as memories, sire, I simply – absorbed them into my life. If I never met another friend from Camelot, all my days, those dreams were still like a private treasure of experience that I could draw on."

"That was quite a speech," Gwaine teased gently, but there was a pensive look in the other knight's eyes. Arthur thought it likely that Percival and Lancelot had reached similar conclusions as young boys. And Gwen and Elyan had supported each other from the earliest age.

"Arthur – why?" Leon asked.

"Gaius said, his recollection of his dreams faded as he got older, leaving him his love of science and medicine," Arthur mused. And the love for Merlin his grandson lifelong and natural. The old physician's memories would have fit relatively comfortably into his modern life, upon seeing his grandson – Merlin – at that bus stop.

Arthur's own father, of course, had denied the truth for so long - and so strenuously, in the case of Arthur's memory-dreams – even the arrival of Gaius, the employment of Arthur's knights, meeting Gwen and Percival, hadn't fazed Thomas Drake.

"Sometimes I watch Merlin," Leon confessed suddenly, making a leap of intuition. He often would voice what Arthur was thinking, so the thought, idea, or plan could be discussed on it's own merits, rather than something that had come from the crown prince or the king. "Sometimes it seems like he – knows who we expect him to be, and he plays the part for us."

"What do you mean, the clumsy cheerful manservant, or the secretly-insanely powerful sorcerer?" Gwaine said.

"Both," Leon answered. "And have you forgotten how he was before he remembered?"

Arthur remembered, all too well. Wary, defensive, dangerously independent. He could go on. Prickly, aloof, standoffish…antisocial. Carol in IT had described him as _moody_.

"I'm sure he'll be fine, he just needs more time," Arthur said. "He kind of had to hit the ground running, and – we've been busy ever since. And now he's working on the information we learned from Gibson Chance."

Leon and Gwaine both leaned forward onto the table, eager to hear the full tale of Arthur and Merlin's visit to NSA headquarters. Arthur obligingly told it, and finished by asking Leon, "Does the name Xander ring any bells with you?"

Leon leaned back in his chair, studying the ceiling tiles. "No," he said slowly. "But I can go back through my reports to your father – I kept track of mileage, destinations, some meetings. You could ask Mary, too, if your father doesn't mind her trying to find that name in her records."

"Good idea," Arthur said, checking his watch. "Five minutes to get to the third floor," he added, standing and heading for the door. "Take it easy – but not _too_ easy." Leon nodded agreement; Gwaine grinned.

Thomas Drake's office could only be reached by passing through Mary's office, and when Arthur entered, Mary was typing away happily, Merlin watching over her shoulder, arms crossed, face intent.

"Good morning, Arthur," the grandmotherly blonde greeted him.

"For about another half an hour," Arthur replied, giving her his charming smile. It paid to be on the good side of his father's personal assistant, but Mary was easy to be nice to. "Then it'll be 'good afternoon'."

"You could just say good day," Merlin proposed, his attention still on Mary's computer. He reached over her shoulder to adjust something with the mouse.

"_Bonjour_," Arthur said, hand on the doorknob of his father's office, channeling his prim French professor from high school.

Merlin's wide grin flashed. "_Yo_," he said, ghetto-style.

Arthur was trying to hide his laughter as he entered his father's office – and it wasn't hard, past the door.

"Ah, Arthur," Thomas Drake said, turning from his computer. "What was it you wanted to see me about?"

Despite living under the same roof for three days out of seven, Arthur hadn't spoken to his father since last week. Yet there was no _How are you enjoying your master's courses so far?_ no _How are your Securities projects progressing_? Hell, not even a _Mustang running ok for ya_? or _Knocked that girl up yet_?

"I met with Agent Chance Monday afternoon at Fort Meade," Arthur said, seating himself in the chair across the mahogany desk from his father.

"And?" Thomas Drake said, his tone bordering on condescending boredom. He broke eye contact with his son to glance across his desk as if impatient to turn his complete attention to something more worthwhile.

"I share his opinion that the June attack did not originate with the hacker known as Mordred," Arthur said. "We believe he was taking orders from someone else, someone with a grudge specifically against you."

"Against me?" Aristocratic disbelief.

"Does the name 'Xander' mean anything to you?" Arthur asked.

Thomas Drake didn't flinch, didn't wrinkle his brow, didn't react to the name at all. He reached for a silver letter opener, toyed with it. "Let me tell you something, Arthur," he said. "I received the official statement from the NSA Tuesday morning. They are confident that they have extracted all relevant information from each conspirator and these terrorist cells pose no further threat. The case is closed. Agent Royce Frederick included a memo in the email describing the lingering suspicions of his supervisor – which clearly have no basis in fact, but are mere conjecture. That name 'Xander' came, I understand it, from your employee Marvin, who claimed to have interpreted some random flailing of the prisoner's hands."

Arthur took a deep breath, let it out slowly through his nose, gritted his teeth. _Damn_ Frederick for interfering. Of course as soon as Merlin's name came up, Thomas Drake would have ignored any and all information attributable to the teenager.

"Rest assured, Arthur, I know no one by that name." Thomas Drake's tone had gentled fractionally. "If Agent Frederick and the National Security Agency find no further cause for alarm, then there is no reason to concern yourself. It is high time we put the whole fiasco behind us."

"I am trying to be thorough, Father," Arthur said.

"And I appreciate that, Arthur –"

"Do you mind if I ask Mary to do some research? She's been with you for what? fifteen years?"

"Arthur." Thomas Drake sighed. "No. There is no reason for you to add to my secretary's workload."

"Maybe just access to her files –"

"Absolutely not." His father's voice was cold steel. "Now, if you do not have enough work in your new department to occupy your time, I'm certain I can find someone in this company who can make use of you."

"That won't be necessary, Father," Arthur said, outwardly calm and inwardly seething. Why did he ever expect a conversation with his father to go any differently?

"It's Wednesday," Thomas Drake said, clearly assuming that the topic was closed. "Back to Baltimore after work, then?"

"Yes, father." He'd been saying _that_ every day of his life since he was two.

"Well." Thomas Drake picked up a file folder, opened it, then glanced up at his son in dismissal. "Drive safely."

….*…. ….*…. ….*…. ….*…. ….*….

At five-thirty Arthur left Camelot. Gwaine and Leon had both already finished for the day, and Merlin himself had never returned to the Securities office from seeing to Mary's computer. His neck and shoulders ached from tension and suppressed frustration.

The sky overhead was the dull gray of dirty snow, the wind fickle in direction and intensity. Mass exodus of Camelot employees occurred at five, on the dot, so few vehicles were left in the parking lot. Arthur approached his Mustang at a brisk walk, gripping his keys in the pocket of his leather jacket, wondering if he'd need to stop for gas on the way to his apartment in Baltimore, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to ease the soreness. _Damn_, he missed those training sessions. A trip to the gym just didn't replace those.

He rounded the rear of the car and stopped abruptly. Merlin was seated on the curb next to the front drivers'-side tire, one arm clasping his knees up to his chin, the other hand, almost blue with cold, tented over a cigarette. He blew a lungful of smoke into the wind from the depths of the hood of his dark gray sweatshirt. Arthur couldn't see Merlin's face clearly – his eyes, in particular, were hidden.

"How long have you been sitting here?" Arthur demanded, unlocking the Mustang. The shoulders of the sweatshirt shrugged. "You could've waited inside, you know."

"Can't smoke inside," Merlin stated, stubbing out his cigarette on the curb. When he stood Arthur noticed that his satchel had been replaced with the battered backpack Merlin used when staying over at Arthur's apartment. He went around the car to take his place as Arthur's 'shotgun'.

"Gaius knows, right?" Arthur said, shutting the door gladly on the October chill. Merlin grunted. "What did you tell Carol?"

Merlin shrugged. He hadn't lowered his hood, and, with his face turned toward the side window, Arthur could read nothing of his mood. Except what the fact of his presence gave away…

Arthur started the engine, backed from the parking space, put Camelot in the rearview mirror. He turned the radio onto an AM station, adjusted the volume down so the silence wouldn't be uncomfortable, but conversation could still be carried on over the radio voices. As they headed out on highway 295, Arthur ducked his head to glanced out Merlin's window, wondering what kept his friend's attention so fixed away from him. Low in the gray sky, he glimpsed a dark scrap that resolved into spread wings and – astoundingly, a lighter-colored head.

"That a _bald_ eagle?" he said.

"Yep." The hooded head turned to follow the slower-flying bird as long as possible. There was a _longing_ in Merlin's sigh as he finally sat back that tugged inexplicably at Arthur's heartstrings, and the sorcerer whistled a piece of a tune through his teeth…_ If birds fly over the rainbow, why oh why can't I?_ Then followed silence.

"You know, it's still odd to me," Arthur remarked, and after a moment in which Merlin didn't say, _What is,_ he added, "Time was when I could hardly get you to shut up. Even when there was danger of meeting bandits, or enemy patrols, or scaring away game on a hunt, you – rabbited on with your complaints."

"What's there to complain about?" Merlin said tonelessly, his face still turned away. "I'm comfortable, I'm warm –" He gestured at the center console, and the red heater light blinked on, warm air breathing from the Mustang's vents.

Arthur grunted at Merlin's casual display of magic. He wanted to say, _what's wrong?_ He wanted to ask, _why'd you decide to ride along, this week_? Ever since Arthur had started in the master's program at the University of Baltimore, renting a basement apartment in Druid Heights – of all places! oh, the irony – Merlin had occasionally taken the trip with him, driving out Wednesday night and returning to Alexandria on Sunday, after two days of classes and Saturday in Arlington – only a slight detour, after all – to visit Gwen.

_Don't be such a_ girl, _Arthur_. He did say, "You have a fight with Gaius?"

Merlin faced forward, the corner of a wry smirk visible. "I never have a fight with Gaius." He glanced at Arthur, too quickly for him to catch Merlin's eye and still keep his concentration on the road. "You have a fight with your dad?" Arthur gritted his teeth. Merlin kept on – now rabbiting when Arthur _didn't_ want him to – "You talked to him about Xander, right? What did he say? He said, 'Yes, I know him, went to school with him, stole his girl once, cheated him out of a grade once, stole his Business 101 textbook? Yes, Arthur, I can be helpful this time – and oh, by the way, I would love to have Gwen as my daughter-in-law' –"

"SHUT UP, MERLIN!" Arthur roared. "Hell_fire_, you don't know when to talk and when to shut your mouth, do you? Damn, I swear if I wasn't driving this car right now –"

"Pull over and get out," Merlin suggested, and Arthur was quite sure he wasn't joking.

"You think it's easy to tuck my tail to my father and ask for favors – which, oh, by the way, don't ever get done? Think it's easy when he refuses every suggestion I have?" Arthur bellowed. "I am a damn _king_! You know how hard it is to have to beg _everyone_ for a little responsibility, a little consideration, when everything in me demands to _order_!"

He took a breath. Merlin said, "Feel better?" That little smile was back on his face.

Arthur considered. "A little, yeah." He breathed in and out through his nose, and then again, and – surprisingly – felt much calmer. Had Merlin provoked him to lose his temper on purpose?

"No tips on Xander, then," Merlin said, and Arthur shook his head. "How is Gwen?" Merlin asked innocently, his tone mild.

"She's great," he said. In spite of his father's attitude toward her, in spite of his father's refusal to accept the relationship as permanent, he felt a self-conscious grin trying to come out, the same one that wanted to come out at each thought of his fiancée. "She loves her classes at Chamberlain. She'll be a great nurse. I've got a dinner date with her on Friday."

"Friday?" Merlin said.

"Yeah, dinner with Gwen, then I have an invitation for the guest room in her parents' house. Officially meeting her parents." Arthur propped his left elbow against the side window, shaded his face with his hand and tapped the thick silver ring on his right hand against the steering wheel. _Parents_…

Merlin said, "But…" drawing the word out in an expectant way.

"Every Sunday night, my father hosts another formal dinner," Arthur confessed. If Merlin dared to laugh Arthur would pull over and – strangle him, or something. "Another Fortune Five Hundred family with an eligible daughter."

"Are you sure he doesn't remember being king?" Merlin said.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Princess Elena?" he guessed. "Can't anyone be as bad as her…" And yet, she wasn't so bad, after all. Just not Gwen. "What about you?" Arthur said. "You still seeing that girl from the mall – Freya, wasn't it?"

"Yep," Merlin said.

"So," Arthur said, drawing out the word provocatively. "How's that going?"

A tiny, secretive smile appeared on Merlin's face. "Fine," he said.

So. Whatever was on Merlin's mind – or nerves - it wasn't girl problems. "Kissed her yet?" Arthur pushed.

The smile widened. "None of your business," Merlin told him lightly.

"Slept with her yet?" It was the verbal equivalent of any physical abuse Arthur couldn't visit on his young friend as a form of affection.

"Damn, Arthur!" Now Merlin was blushing furiously, and Arthur was laughing.

Life was good, wasn't it? Six o'clock, and all's well…


	3. Warrior's Training

**Chapter 3: Warrior's Training**

Thursday morning Merlin was still asleep on the couch in Arthur's basement apartment, when Arthur let himself out quietly. He'd learned his lesson on 7:30am classes as an undergrad; by the end of the first semester he was going to class in pajama pants and a sweatshirt with an extra-large black coffee, leaving a shower and breakfast until _after_ Biology 101.

But when he had three two-hour classes almost back to back, two days in a row, every week, the days began early of a necessity. And if he wanted to get his Master of the Arts in "Global Affairs and Human Security", he had to get up in time to get to class. Arthur tossed his messenger bag into the passenger seat of the Mustang, and drove the mile and a half to the campus of the University of Baltimore, which had the advantage over Brown of being one hour away from Camelot, instead of fourteen.

Halfway through his class _Understanding and Assessing Conflict_, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the caller ID – Agent Chance. He was debating the advisability of walking out on the class to return the agent's call, when a text came in. **Results of apt. test in. Call to discuss.**

Oh, that. Arthur, Merlin, and Leon had all taken extensive written and oral tests at Gibson Chance's urging, personality, aptitude, whatever. Evidently the military and police department already had such data on Gavin Kraft, Peter Spiers, and Allen Bell that were shared with the NSA, data that was necessary for a place on the payroll as consultant – although only Merlin, so far, had received recognition and remuneration for services rendered.

Well, that could wait. Updates on Mordred or Xander might necessitate an absence from class, but unless or until that happened…

The lecture had passed the two-hour mark by five minutes by the time a front-row student called the professor's attention to it. Arthur used those five minutes to send a text-email to his next professor, explaining why he would be a few minutes late. Bag of textbooks and other scholarly paraphernalia over his shoulder, he keyed for Chance's number in his phone and crossed the classroom building's lobby as the call was put through to the agent's office.

"Arthur," Chance greeted him in a low, serious voice. "Thank you for returning my call."

"No problem," Arthur said. "About those tests?"

"You all passed NSA standards for consultation, no worry there," Chance said. "There was nothing unexpected on Leon Tweed's ap test… but you've known him for years, haven't you."

"Yes," Arthur said. "So why the call?"

"I am intrigued by the results on several sections of _your_ test, Arthur," Chance said. "You excelled in organizational and directive leadership as well as theoretical command, far beyond what we expect of someone of your – limited experience." Arthur stopped walking. "Captain of the chess team just doesn't translate to highly skilled command capabilities under combat conditions, you see."

Arthur's throat felt dry. "I wasn't captain of the chess team," he objected. Maybe he should've tempered his answers on that damn test. So much for honesty.

"Your scores were comparable to a senior-level field agent, Arthur," Chance's voice was deceptively mild. "Well done. On two different hypotheticals your rationalization caused our test-evaluators to reset the parameters of acceptable response. That explains, perhaps, the extraordinarily high levels of loyalty your team members hold for you personally. I have to say I envy you that."

"It's a helluva thing," Arthur agreed breathlessly. "Was that all, Agent? because I've got a class to –"

"Your friend Marvin Caroban, on the other hand," Chance continued, and Arthur clenched his jaw. "Though he scored in the top five percent in the intellectual sections, and seems to out-genius even our best systems analysts, his responses in the behavioral and personality questions were – troubling."

Oh, _hell_. "What do you mean?" Arthur said defensively, knowing that Merlin had either lied, and so seemed _too_ normal, or he'd told too much of the truth.

"You understand it is necessary for me to give you this information as the head of your team – responsible at all times for the safety and welfare of each of them? Otherwise I wouldn't be discussing a person's results with someone else."

"Yes, I understand." It was cold, and windy, but Arthur felt no inclination to enter the building housing his next class. He wanted _no one_ to overhear _any_ of this conversation.

"Are you aware of Marvin's juvenile criminal record?" Chance's voice said through Arthur's phone.

"Yes."

"His testing shows a – regrettable – disregard for rules, regulations – for the law, in fact."

"Yeah, he has a hard time doing what he's told, especially if he has a better idea," Arthur said. Merlin often, also, had a bigger-than-big picture view of things, in spite of his feelings sometimes complicating the details.

"Conversely, his test also shows a near-unrealistic idealism," Chance went on. "A complete disregard for himself also, in any given hypothetical – which could actually prove dangerous, and not only to himself."

Arthur sighed, and let the agent hear it through the phone. "Tell me something I don't know," he said.

Chance cleared his throat. "He believes he can do magic," he said.

Arthur collapsed onto the low stone wall beside the sidewalk. Hell _fire_. _Ok, quick, think damage control_ – "I know," he said mildly.

"And?" Chance came back expectantly.

"What do you mean?"

"Does that bother you, that a member of your team holds such – delusional beliefs?"

Arthur's first reaction was relief – ok, so he hadn't been idiotic enough to _demonstrate_. Then he realized there was a second question behind and beneath that one – _do you also hold these beliefs?_ And maybe a suggestion, a whisper of a third question – _is he right_? The hair on Arthur's scalp stood up. "Not at all," he continued in the same mild tone. "Agent Chance, do you have the Washington Department of Social and Health Services file on Marvin?"

There was a pause. "I have an abbreviated version," Chance answered.

"Then you should know that he lost his father, mother, and brother at a very early age," Arthur said. "You should know that he experienced therapy and drug treatment for mental illness as a child. You should know that he did not have an easy time in foster care, after his adoptive parents returned him to the state's custody. No, it doesn't bother me a bit that he believes he can do magic." _Because he is_ right, Arthur thought with a fierceness he dared not allow into his tone. "You said we all met agency standards, correct?"

"Yes…" Chance explained, "Marvin Caroban was admitted based upon the partnership he shares with you. Though he appears stable, he would be unacceptable as a solitary consultant. But, given his deep loyalty to you and your own unyielding sense of morality, we feel sure that your team can prove useful to the NSA. You balance each other out, so to speak."

He didn't know whether to be flattered on his own behalf, or offended on Merlin's. He breathed more freely, though. Two sides of one coin. "Thank you, Agent Chance," he said. He pushed to his feet, checked his watch. Now he was _very_ late for class. "Was that all?"

"Ah – no, not quite. You and Marvin are the only members of your team who do not have any formal weapons training or combat experience. We'd like to rectify that."

"In what way?" Arthur said.

"Well, to start with, I'd like to meet the both of you on our shooting range, get a feel for your abilities, evaluate what training courses might be necessary."

"When?" Arthur said. Between work and class and Gwen –

"You let me know what works for you," Chance said.

"I'll have to get back to you on that," Arthur said.

"I look forward to hearing from you." And the agent disconnected the call.

After his last class, a two-hour lecture on Epidemiology, Arthur headed to the library. They had a coffee-and-pastry stand in the basement at the center of a study area with computers, tables, and comfortably-stuffed lounge chairs. He preferred the casual atmosphere, and enjoyed the delicious aromas always present. Coffee at his elbow, he logged in to his email account to compose a message for Thomas Drake.

**Dear Father**, he wrote**. I was contacted today by a team supervisor from the NSA who requested my presence in Fort Meade for** –" he hesitated, biting his lip, then typed boldly, "**specialized training. Please advise which is the best day to schedule training, Oct 14, 15, or 16. ~ Arthur**

Leaving the computer, Arthur did his best to focus on the required reading for Friday's classes, but gave up after about half an hour. Before leaving the study area, he checked his email again. There was a reply from his father, short and to the point. **Define specialized training. TD**

He gritted his teeth, clicking the _Reply_ button. **Weapons training and combat simulations. **No, it wouldn't do. He backspaced. Okay, how about – **Self defense techniques. I anticipate that this training will provide a useful background reference for my interests in Camelot Securities.** Who knew? He could very well come up with usable ideas for creating or refining personal defense equipment or strategies.

He loitered for ten more minutes, but no response came. Slinging his study materials into his messenger bag, he headed for the library's exit. Whether Merlin was working on his laptop or watching something on the apartment's tiny 24-inch tv, back to back on the kitchen counter with the microwave, he could finish the work necessary for tomorrow's classes there.

The main entrance of the library faced a wide common area, maybe fifty yards square, the brown stubbly grass criss-crossed with sidewalks. The wide stairs of the classroom building opposite the library had the distinction of being the last place for blocks where the setting sun seemed to linger – therefore, the students did as well.

As Arthur approached, angling toward the parking lot in the rear, he noticed someone rising from a place on the stairs, and recognized Merlin, who hadn't seemed to see him yet. It wasn't unusual for the young sorcerer to hang out on campus when he came to Baltimore with Arthur – the mile and a half distance a nice walk – but it struck Arthur as a little odd for Merlin to leave the warm basement apartment for that walk and a concrete stair in the October cool.

Two other students jogged down the stair, one with red hair and one with brown, both with the build and bearing of those on sports scholarships, followed by two dainty females. They crossed so immediately in front of Merlin that he had to jerk back, and stumbled when his heel didn't clear the step behind him. Arthur was close enough to hear the clear, high-pitched giggles of the girls, but not to catch whatever snide remark or insult Merlin made. Both hulking boys swung around, twin leers of malice on their faces as they looked down at Merlin.

_Dammit_. Arthur picked up his pace. The brown-haired boy shoved Merlin back down with a sneer and a comment of his own. "Hey!" Arthur hollered. None of them paid him any attention.

The strangers turned away again to join the girls on the sidewalk, and Arthur, who knew what to look for, saw Merlin's magic trip the brown-haired boy, two steps down to sprawl at the feet of the girls, who shrieked in alarm. The red-haired boy grabbed Merlin up by the front of his sweatshirt – but didn't expect him to come up swinging. Red Hair stumbled back but didn't release his hold, and they both went down.

"HEY!" Arthur bellowed again, and broke into a run, shrugging his messenger bag off.

Another kid, built like a rugby player, barreled down the stairs just ahead of Arthur, snatching Merlin's shoulders just far enough away from the red-haired kid for him to slam a fist into Merlin's face.

Arthur tackled the rugby player from the side at full tilt, using the other's body to break his fall, and the momentum of his rush to sling the heavier boy still further down the sidewalk, as he himself rolled back over his shoulder and regained his feet first.

"Stop it, Brad, stop!" the girls were screaming. The brown-haired boy that Merlin had tripped down the stairs was on his feet, dizzily re-assessing the situation, the arrival of Arthur and the rugby player – who swung a football-sized fist at Arthur.

Arthur ducked, then lunged, landing three blows – right, right, left – into his opponent's gut. The rugby player grunted, and Arthur dodged another swing, aiming a heel-kick at his knee. The rugby player collapsed, and Arthur turned in time for the brown-haired boy's fist to glance off the side of his jaw. He caught the boy's wrist, pulling him in the direction of his swing, across Arthur's center of gravity, neatly tripping him once again to send him sprawling.

Taking a quick breath, he glanced back at Merlin to see Red Hair try to kick a field goal through Merlin's ribs – Merlin rolled, flash of gold – and the boy's other leg twisted out from under him.

Arthur took two steps, playing himself between Merlin's groaning, prostrate form, and the other three combatants. He held his hands up, palms out, as they scrambled to their feet with more or less alacrity and coordination.

"Enough," Arthur declared firmly. "All right?" The red-haired boy wiped blood from a split lip with the back of his hand, and the brown-haired boy's pant-leg was torn – Arthur felt a glow of pride for his friend.

The two girls took the opportunity to urge their male companions to rejoin them – "Let's just leave, Brad." Arthur was still unsure which one was Brad.

He watched them watch him warily, and retreat. Fight over and weather cool, the other spectators drifted away, and Arthur retrieved his messenger bag before seating himself in the grass beside Merlin, who retched to the side before rolling over, panting and holding his ribs.

"You know, I came because I had this funny feeling you were going to get into trouble," Merlin said, trying to laugh but ending up coughing instead. He wiped blood from his nose on the cuff of his sweatshirt, mixed with tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes.

"Don't do that," Arthur ordered, and dug in his bag for the t-shirt he wore at the gym. Merlin mumbled something Arthur was sure was a protest or a complaint, and Arthur snapped, "It's clean, dammit, just _use_ it."

The young sorcerer struggled to his elbows, head tipped back, blood seeping into the crumpled t-shirt held to his face. He eyed Arthur. "Well?" he demanded.

"Well what?" Arthur said.

"Aren't you gonna give me hell for using magic in public?" Merlin asked defensively.

Arthur smirked, remembering the second day he'd met Merlin, provoking him into another encounter – and he couldn't seem to quit tripping, or tangling his weapon, to get anywhere close to Merlin until the sorcerer was distracted himself. Then Arthur had landed a blow that had startled even him. He knew perfectly well what his friend was capable of, and in public.

"You're on the ground whimpering like a girl and bleeding like a stuck pig," Arthur said. "I think the better question is, why didn't you do more?"

"Can't make it too easy, can I?" Merlin chuckled mirthlessly, and struggled up to a sitting position. " 'S not fair."

"What's not?"

"You –" He gestured at Arthur with the bloody shirt, and hastily reapplied it as blood trickled down to his mouth.

"You mean, why was I born with natural fighting abilities – _again_?" Arthur said, laying on the arrogance so heavily it was a joke. "Graceful and deadly and –"

"You get to be different," Merlin mumbled. "You got to be a prince before, but this time, you get to just be – you."

Arthur shook his head. "Not following you."

"Don't you – notice – that…" Merlin waved one hand expressively in the air. "That the weight of – ruling a kingdom… is gone, this time? Maybe it's not easy to – adjust… but are you ever – glad it's gone, even a little?"

Arthur had noticed something about his friend – if Merlin opened his mouth to say something surprisingly wise and exquisitely relevant, he always did so with eloquence, also. It was as if the words came _through_ the sorcerer from somewhere beyond, somewhere deeper and not always accessible. It seemed to him that Merlin was now on the cusp of such a revelation – so why was he stuttering, now? Because of a punch in the face?

"I suppose there were more chances for mental relaxation in my life, this time," Arthur said.

The sorcerer shook his head, as if Arthur's obtuseness prevented Merlin from explaining. "Never mind."

Thinking of Agent Chance and his offer of weapons training, Arthur tried again, "You mean you want to learn to fight like an ordinary person? Without magic?" Merlin didn't answer. "I've been telling you for _years_ you need to learn to defend yourself properly."

Merlin glanced down into the bloody t-shirt, dabbed at his face, and said thickly, "Stopped bleeding." Arthur took the bloodstained t-shirt, helped Merlin to his feet. He slung the strap of his messenger bag over one shoulder and went to claim Merlin's satchel, abandoned on the darkening steps. "Time was, you've had made me clean that," Merlin said, gesturing at the t-shirt.

Arthur paused, glanced around. "All right – clean it," he said.

Merlin began to protest, "Bloodstains are nearly impossible to lift, even with bleach –"

Arthur stopped him with a raised eyebrow and a little smile. "Merlin," he said, holding out the shirt. "Just – _clean_ it."

That time it clicked, and Merlin gave him a small smile. One brief flash of golden irises, and Arthur wadded the spotless shirt to fit in his bag. "Come on," he said. "Let's go home."

….*…. . …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur felt slightly guilty about leaving Merlin alone in the basement apartment in Druid Heights, even at his friend's insistence. Even knowing he'd never be more than an hour away. Just in case.

"Go," Merlin said. "Have fun with Gwen. I'll get more work done with it quieter around here, anyway."

"Are you sure?" Arthur asked a second time.

"I'll eat all your food and spill beer on your rug," Merlin said. "Hell, I'll even sleep on the bed for once."

Arthur stuck his finger in Merlin's face. "If you sleep in the bed, then you wash the sheets." Merlin laughed as he shut the door behind Arthur.

Arthur took Gwen to the Skydome. He'd made reservations for a table where they could sit side-by-side and look out on the incredible view of the D.C. lights and dine on steak salad, crab cakes, and grilled salmon. She leaned into his side and he inhaled the rose scent of her hair as they chatted leisurely about classes, about work, about Camelot and their friends. Gwen asked about the break-in at Gaius' lab and the latest news from Agent Chance. Arthur asked what she'd heard from Elyan.

"They're supposed to be back in port in San Diego the first of December," she reminded him. "But Elyan's not sure he's going to come straight home. He said a friend of his – someone who didn't sail with them this tour – recently had a bad reaction to a routine smallpox vaccine, and then went missing."

"Went missing?" Arthur said.

"I guess they gave him a day off or something to recover, but he never showed back up to work," Gwen said. "Apparently he walked right out of his house, left his phone and keys behind, the door unlocked and his car in the drive. Elyan said his friend would never go AWOL unless something was wrong – he's not happy with the investigators, it sounds like to me. If his friend hasn't turned up by December, Elyan wants to do some investigating on his own."

"Is there anything we can do?" Arthur said. He knew how he'd feel if he was stuck on a ship in the middle of the ocean and a friend went missing.

"I can ask him, the next time we talk," Gwen said. "But Arthur, you're so busy already…"

"I can always volunteer Gwaine's time," Arthur said, grinning.

Gwen laughed and put her hand on his. "How's Merlin?" she asked. "I miss seeing him every day –"

"You miss seeing _him_ every day?" Arthur interrupted in mock outrage, sliding a few inches away from her on the leather-upholstered bench seat.

She kicked him under the table. "Don't be jealous," she told him archly. "I'm engaged to _you_."

"He's fine, I guess." Arthur thought of their brief skirmish on the library lawn, of Leon's insightful comments about their young friend, and felt again that pang of guilt. "Busy with his cyber-sleuthing."

"Are you sure?" Gwen asked.

"Why?"

"Well, I've gotten into the habit of emailing Freya a couple of times a week," Gwen said. "I think – she's a little worried about him."

"Why?" Arthur said again. "What did she say?"

Gwen looked away, smoothing her napkin out. "Do you – I mean, does she seem – familiar to you, at all?" He gave her a puzzled look, and she watched a waiter pass them with a full tray of steaming plates, momentarily obscuring the lights of D.C. before and below them. In a lower tone, she continued, "Did you know her in _Camelot_?"

"The first time?" he said, astounded. "No. Why would she –" He bit off the question, not knowing how to say it without sounding rude. Why would she return after 1500 years? Two kings, a queen, a sorcerer, court physician, and five Round Table knights, yes. Completely logical. "What makes you think she's like us? Did she say something?"

"Not exactly," Gwen hedged, a tiny frown wrinkle appearing between her brows. "She just – a month or so ago, she wrote something about loving Merlin in another lifetime."

"Gaius told me," Arthur said slowly, "Merlin was in love once, almost left Camelot with the girl, but she died."

"You think it might be her, then?" Gwen said. "Back again? Like us?"

"I don't know," Arthur said honestly. Gaius had also said, Destiny has never been kind to Merlin. Maybe Destiny was now making it up to him? "What I do know is that he's happy with her. What's she worried about?"

"She thinks," Gwen bit her lip, clearly not wishing to betray feminine confidences. "She thinks sometimes Merlin pretends to be cheerful. I guess he's told her a little about – his life in Seattle, and –" Gwen shrugged. "I don't know. She didn't really come right out and say this, I'm just reading between the lines, you know?"

"Remember what Gaius said, that Merlin didn't tell the whole truth because he wanted to spare us all the worry of knowing the danger he was in, or whatever?" Arthur said. "He knows that we're here for him. And pushing Merlin for information is like pushing Gaius – you don't get anywhere."

"I know," Gwen sighed. "I just – hoped that Freya was going to be someone he could confide in."

"He probably does," Arthur said, thinking of how he'd neglected to mention the fistfight. "But there are things he won't want her worrying about, either."

"She loves him, I can tell," Gwen said. Then she reached abruptly for her wine glass. "To Merlin and Freya," she said, and Arthur obligingly drank the toast.

"Now," he said, holding her gaze. "To Arthur and Gwen...and to setting a date for the wedding."

"Oh, congratulations," said the waitress, a solidly-built woman in her late forties with a short haircut, startling them briefly. She reached to clear their dinner dishes. "Are we ready for desert, then? To celebrate?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows at Gwen, leaving the decision up to her.

"Not for _me_," Gwen said to the waitress, then added playfully, addressing Arthur, "But if _you_ want to put off meeting my parents –"

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" the waitress said. "Maybe I should get the dessert menu?"

Arthur smiled. "I'm not worried," he said. "We have one important thing in common, and that's all that matters."

"And what's that," the waitress said, playing along.

"We all love the same person very much." Arthur picked up Gwen's hand and kissed it.

"Don't worry, honey," the waitress told a blushing Gwen. "This one is a charmer – he won't have _any_ problem with your folks."


	4. Crystal Clear

**Chapter 4: Crystal Clear**

Merlin sat on a log in the forest, keeping watch as Arthur slept. Keeping watch over himself, resisting the call of the crystal every moment. Every moment. Until he couldn't resist any longer, and his eyes were drawn to the depths of the faceted stone.

Images flashed, each one slamming through his eyes into his brain. Images not of the future, but of the past. Images that still haunted his dreams, faces of people who promised to care for him, painted with disgust, with fear, with ugly feelings of every sort.

_Monster_, they said.

The kind ones, the one dressed in white and smelling so clean it made him sick to his stomach, told him_, it's not true. You're not Merlin the magician. You never knew King Arthur of Britain._

They told him, _it's natural to miss your brother – your mother, and your father. It's natural that you feel out of control of your life, but to pretend that you can do magic will not help your mind to heal._ They told him, _your name is Marvin, and there's no such thing as real magic_. They told him_, if you want to get better, you need to accept the truth. You are not Merlin. You can't do magic. You never knew King Arthur._

_Monster_, they said, as they locked him alone in a freezing cold shed. Even now he could name every rusty tool that hung on the plank wall, in order. _Monster_, they said as they raised a belt to whip him with. _Monster_, they said as they pushed him down the stairwell of the school. _Monster_! they shrieked with the voice of an approaching fire engine.

It wasn't the dream that woke him. It wasn't falling off the hideously ugly but surprisingly comfortable couch in Arthur's Baltimore basement apartment that woke him, clawing at the air around him. What woke him was the smashing sound of his laptop hitting the closet door, in the corner by the bathroom, where his magic had flung it in a spasm of self-defense.

"What the hell," he said out loud, sprawled on the rug, disoriented. "Arthur?"

Then he remembered that Arthur had left hours ago. Arthur was with Gwen. With her family. Merlin sighed and rubbed his hands over his scalp, messing his hair. Without getting up, he concentrated, and the floor lamp in the corner blinked on.

He'd put his laptop together himself, and he'd built it to withstand just such outbursts. To be able to tumble down the stairs and remain intact. He wished, suddenly and intensely, that Arthur – or Gwaine, maybe – would come and sit next to him, tell him to hold still while his grandfather was on the way. It was stupid, maybe, but he felt the most _himself_ when he was with Arthur.

His cell phone, dropped onto the top of the half-fridge as a catch-all surface, chimed the beginning notes of "The Sound of Silence" _– Hello darkness, my old friend… I've come to talk with you again…_

Letting his body relax til he was lying on his back on the rug, he summoned the phone to his hand and pressed the _Answer Call_ button.

"Merlin?"

He couldn't help the smile, reveled in the warm calm that spread through his chest. "Hey, Freya," he said.

"Did I wake you?"

"No. I was just – working. Doing some research." Some damn useless research. He'd catalogued a dozen different places where Mordred had been caught on camera the last six months, but nothing that led to a positive identity. That didn't matter much, though, did it? He was behind bars, and likely to stay there. Xander, however, was another story.

"On Friday night?" Her voice was reproachful. "Tell Arthur you're done working, and find something fun to do."

"I can't," he said lightly. "For one, Arthur is with Gwen, and for another, I'm in Baltimore and you're in Alexandria – and that's no fun."

"How come you're in Baltimore if Arthur is with Gwen?" she said. "No, let me guess. You had a funny feeling, which made you worry about him, so you rode along with him on Wednesday?"

Merlin shrugged his shoulders on the rug, even though she couldn't see him. "You know me too well, Freya," he said.

Her voice was warm with love. "I do, I really do," she said.

He couldn't help asking, "Any more dreams?"

She laughed softly, a sound that warmed Merlin inside, and made his stomach curl, at the same time. "I should never have told you that," she scolded him affectionately.

He took a deep breath. Well, even if she hadn't remembered him specifically – the rose, the dancing candles, their first kiss - at least she hadn't remembered the fear, the dirt, the chains. At least she didn't remember a horrifying and painful transformation into a huge black beast with wings and fangs. At least she didn't remember murdering innocent people. At least she didn't remember her own death at his best friend's hand. But then, she didn't remember guarding Excalibur, either.

She was the same sweet, loving spirit, and she'd accepted her _love at first sight_ for him without a second's reconsideration. And maybe it wasn't him giving her the care and support she so desperately needed, in this lifetime, but she was still strong and loyal and generous – and maybe _he_ needed that from _her_.

"Merlin?" she said through the phone next to his ear. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said immediately. That was a question he heard from Arthur, all too often. _What I want to know_, Arthur had said, in June in a hospital room, _is if you want it to be different, this time. _ Did he? And different how?

"Are you sure? You sound a little stuffy. Are you coming down with something?"

Oh, yeah. His nose still hurt from the fight he'd gotten into yesterday. "My sinuses are a little sore," he said.

"Well, it's late. Why don't you take something for that and get some sleep? When are you coming back to Alexandria?"

"I'm going to be working from home – or, rather, from Arthur's apartment – next week. I guess it depends on Arthur's plans."

There was a moment of silence, before she said, "You know, that's the story of your life, Merlin – it depends on Arthur's plans."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No – don't be. I didn't mean to make you feel bad – I know what he means to you. I guess I just wish – you'd take more time for yourself. Take better care of yourself."

The crystal flashed an image across the back of his eyelids – an earnest-looking doctor, saying, _it's normal to mourn your brother – but you have to think of yourself. You have to let go_.

It was selfish of him to wish that she remembered, just for one moment, just so he could say to her_, I lost him once_. Just so she would understand the depth of his fear – _that it would happen again_.

He said aloud, "I know. It just – scared me, in June, that drone crashing into Camelot headquarters. He almost died."

"I know, Merlin," her voice was sympathetic. "Call me when you're back in town, okay? I miss you…"

"I miss you too," he said, around a lump in his throat.

"I'll see you later, then… I love you."

Merlin whispered, "I love you, too." Then the phone was quiet in his hand.

He stuffed it into his pocket. He let the lights die, and laid there on the floor, alone. The basement apartment was quiet. It was a well-built house, Merlin mused, gazing at the textured ceiling. The family of the resident landlord, who occupied the main floor, included two dogs, a young wife and a ten-month-old baby, but the most they ever heard was a muffled thump or two, maybe a thin wail in the middle of the night, barking when a visitor came to the upstairs door.

He could watch tv, he supposed. He could open the fridge and choose a microwaveable meal, having slept through dinner. He focused one tendril of power, and Arthur's bedside alarm snapped to the radio feature. Carol King sang "Anyone at All" - _Funny how I feel… more myself with you/ Than anybody else that I ever knew/ I hear it in your voice… see it in your face/ You've become the memory I can't erase…_

He should probably retrieve the laptop from the floor by the closet door, see if there was any damage to repair. But he didn't.

_You could have been anyone at all… A stranger falling out of the blue… I'm so glad it was you…_

Merlin thought of taking a shower. Of taking a walk. He could walk to the gas station two blocks down, get a Coke, a coffee, a bag of chips – a sixpack or a bottle of something harder. He was underage, but that didn't matter for someone who had magic.

_Wasn't in the plan… not that I could see/ Suddenly a miracle came to me…_

Magic. Just now it didn't do him much good, did it? Maybe he'd gotten it wrong. Maybe the name was off by a letter or two. Maybe Mordred's hand had twitched, flickering over the tabletop in the absence of a keyboard. Maybe Merlin was wasting his time looking for 'Xander'.

_You could have been anyone at all… An old friend calling out of the blue… I'm so glad it was you…_

Merlin scrambled to his feet, lunged through the door, knocking his shoulder against the jamb, slamming it behind him. In spite of the cold and the dark, he took off down the sidewalk, gripping his phone in the pouch pocket of his hoodie. He stalked past the weathered wooden sign reminding the neighborhood that this was _Druid Heights_. That was a joke. Merlin doubted there had ever been Druids in Maryland. There was only him.

Under the second streetlight, he paused, found the number he wanted, and pushed _Talk_. "Hello?" said the old man's voice.

"Gaius?" he said, struggling to keep that note of desperation out of his voice. "It's me."

"Merlin?" his grandfather said, with no little surprise. "Do you know what time it is?"

He took the phone away from his ear to check the illuminated screen. "It's ten fifty-seven," he said. "That's not late for a Friday night."

"Not for you, maybe," Gaius said sternly. "But I'm an old man."

"You're not that old," Merlin argued lightly.

His grandfather cleared his throat. "Merlin, what is it?"

"I…well…" The reason he'd needed to hear Gaius' voice had seemed so vital a moment ago, now seemed – trivial. _Am I a monster_, he'd asked him once. A very long time ago. He stared for a moment at the neighborhood sign, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Freya didn't remember being a Druid… "You remember doing magic, don't you?" he said finally.

"Merlin – we've spoken of this before. I promised I would write out as many spells and incantations as I remembered, though my knowledge will fall far short of a comprehensive dictionary of the Old Language – " Merlin didn't say that he no longer actually needed such a thing, Gaius had been so intent on the project. "But I can no longer perform any magic."

"I know," he said softly, not wanting to cause the old man any pain. "I just wondered – if you remember how it felt…" That liquid fire racing through his veins, head to heart to hands, bursting through his skin… was he really the last person alive who could feel those powerful sensations? And what would it be like to be without that ability – to be 'normal'?

"Merlin, what's wrong?" Gaius said, the concern in his voice clear even through the phone.

"I just –" He cleared his throat. "I just got off the phone with Freya."

"Ah."

"You know, don't you?" Merlin hadn't come right out and said this yet, to any of his friends. And Gaius, if he had recognized Freya for the ragged, filthy Druid girl chained in the bounty hunter's cage, hadn't mentioned it. "You know who she is? She's the same one – well, almost."

"She is –" Gaius began.

"She is the Druid girl," Merlin blurted. "The one I almost left Camelot for. The one I almost left –" Almost left _Arthur_ for.

"Indeed?" Gaius' voice held great interest. "The girl with the curse?"

"Yes – well, not any more. She told me when she was young, she used to have vivid dreams of living in the country with her family, even though she's lived in D.C. all her life," Merlin said. "She didn't dream of anything after – the curse. She thinks that we…what we have is – love at first sight. That's good enough for her – and it's good enough for me, too," he hastened to add.

"Then what are you worried about?" Gaius asked gently.

Merlin opened his mouth to answer, and found himself gripping the phone so tightly his fingers were numb, unable to speak. What if, what if Freya had been taken because he'd been distracted from his destiny at Arthur's side? What if it had been _his_ fault that she died? What would have happened if he hadn't fallen in love, promised to leave Camelot with her, planned a life by a lake, just the two of them?

And what did that mean for this lifetime? Would it be safer for her to have nothing to do with him?

"Merlin," Gaius sighed. "I never loved another woman like I loved your grandmother, either before or since. When she died… well. Fear of loss is – part of love. But it's a part you must accept, and then ignore. You may have her for half a century, or a decade, or a month."

And Arthur? How long would he have his friend, his brother, his other half?

"Thank you, Gaius," Merlin said.

"Love is never easy, Merlin," the old man said. "But it is always worthwhile."

"I'm sorry I woke you," Merlin said. "Goodnight, Gaius."

"Goodnight, my boy," Gaius said, and the call ended.

He stood under the streetlight, shivering. Alone, except for the traffic passing on the main road, one block over. And a train whistle, in the distance. He should probably return to the apartment, to the warmth and illusion of company that came from having a family living overhead. He shivered again and squinted up into the harsh orange glare obscuring the inky darkness beyond. How different it was from, say, the glow rolling off Kathryn, the warmth that encompassed Percival also, even if the big knight was unaware of it.

_Damn dream crystal_, he groused.

Merlin jumped as his phone jangled an adrenalin-producing alarm. He keyed for the message, the only way to stop the sequence of jarring sounds. An Amber Alert – two boys, Aaron Chaplin, age 6, and Wade Chaplin, age 4, last seen with Cord Metcalf in a white Ford Focus, heading west on the Capitol Beltway.

Brothers. Two brothers, with a stranger – or at least someone who had no business with them in his white Ford Focus, at 11:30 at night. Probably scared. Asking to be returned to their mother, maybe.

Merlin was moving before he'd made a conscious decision to do so, sprinting down the sidewalk, back to the apartment, which exploded with light as he tore through the door. He fell to his knees on the rug, scooping up the abandoned laptop.

Crossing his legs yoga-style, he yanked it open – blank screen. He growled, remembering, and felt his magic surge through his veins like an impulse firing across a synapse, bridging gaps, leaping, restoring – the screen flickered on, and his fingers flew.

He hunched over the computer, channeling his magic into his work, pouring, submerging –

Last seen heading west on Capitol Beltway, mile marker 173. In two hours, that translated into – he calculated, multiplied the possibilities, whirling through video images, hacking into the circuits of gas station cameras, traffic cameras, Walmart parking lot security footage, anything and everything – faster and faster – _find those boys_ – his magic flooded through him as he _willed_ the screen to show him what he needed to see.

His last keystroke was to send an instant message to the West Virginia state police, alerting them to a white Ford Focus, license number PSA 341 in the parking lot of the Motel 6 in Augusta.

Merlin's grip on the laptop didn't ease until he watched blue and red lights flickering through the grainy image. The sluggish and disjointed footage from a still-shot-every-ten-seconds ATM camera across the road from the Motel 6 showed two little boys, hands held firmly by a uniformed officer. Safe.

_That_ was what he wanted to see.

Merlin released the laptop, flexing stiff fingers, rolling his shoulders, and stumbled twice before gaining his feet. He headed for the couch, and banged his knee on a kitchen cupboard, tripped over the rug, and the bottom stair that led to the locked door separating the two levels of the home. He stubbed his toe on Arthur's foot locker before collapsing across the bed.

The lights dimmed, then winked out behind his eyelids.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Rise and shine!"

Yellow light and warmth washed across Merlin's face. "Shut up," he grunted.

"Damn, Merlin, you look awful – and you smell worse. Yep, you're definitely washing that bedding before I use it again."

He squinted at the shadow flitting around the two rooms of the apartment. "Arthur?" He rolled over, his legs flopping off the side of the bed and providing the counterweight necessary to raise his upper body off the mattress.

Arthur's face flashed in his vision. "Are you hung-over?" the golden-haired former prince asked.

"No. Yes?" Merlin rubbed a hand through his hair, frowning. "I don't know – Arthur? Aren't you supposed to be spending the weekend with Gwen?"

"I did." Arthur stepped back, hands on his hips. "Get up. It's quarter after nine. We have to get going. Didn't you get my text?"

"No." Merlin pulled his phone from the pouch pocket of the hoodie he was still wearing. The battery was dead. "What – day is it?"

"What _day_ is it?" Arthur echoed. "Have you been drunk all weekend? I thought you were going to get work done in the quiet – it's Monday morning."

Monday. Merlin stared at his friend for one more second before dashing for the bathroom.

"Do I have time for a shower?" he hollered through the door.

Arthur's voice came to him muffled. "Yes, please do. We're driving down to Fort Meade again this morning."

Merlin stripped his clothes off and turned on the water, not bothering to wait for it to warm up. Ducking a low-hanging exposed pipe, he stepped into the spray, positioning the opaque orange-striped shower curtain so no water would leak out of the shower stall. He grabbed the cake of soap, wincing at the soreness in his hands. How long had he been on the computer before those kids had been found? Arthur hollered something, and Merlin removed his head from the flow of water to respond, "What?"

The bathroom door creaked open, and Arthur's voice was clearer. "I said, thanks for re-stocking the fridge."

Merlin put his head out of the shower stall. "What?" he said.

Arthur lounged into the doorway, unscrewing the cap of a water bottle. "Thanks for re-stocking," he said, speaking with exaggerate slowness. He toasted Merlin's head with the bottle, then frowned. "What did you actually eat this weekend?"

Eat? "Damn, I'm starving," Merlin muttered the realization, making sure all the soap was rinsed from his skin before turning off the water. He slapped the wall twice before his hand landed on his towel, and his backpack skidded into the bathroom on the floor – kicked or tossed by Arthur, he supposed.

"Get dressed!" Arthur bellowed from further away again. "Let's go!"

He was waiting in the driver's seat of his Mustang when Merlin caught up, stuffing his key to the apartment in his pocket. "Aren't you supposed to be in Camelot this morning?" Merlin said. "It's _Monday_ morning, right?" He reached to plug his cell-phone charger into the cigarette lighter on the Mustang's console.

"Chance wants us in Fort Meade," Arthur said briefly, focusing on getting to the highway from Druid Heights.

"And by us you mean –"

"Me and you." Arthur glanced over at him. "Weapons training."

"What?" Weapons training, to Merlin, meant that he donned various ill-fitting bits of spare armor, while Arthur chopped, swung, hacked, or jabbed at him, and he attempted to stay on his feet.

Arthur grinned at his expression. "Firearms," he said.

Oh, hell. "Arthur," he groaned.

"Don't even start complaining, Merlin," Arthur ordered. "You're going to do this, and I'll tell you why. I never _could_ get you to hold a sword properly, and it killed me worrying about you every time we were attacked, and don't even _start_ telling me that you were perfectly safe using your magic for protection every time!" He held up one finger in Merlin's face.

Merlin opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. Well, there was the one time Morgause's blood guard knocked him out with a massive fist to the face, and oh that other time when he'd dispatched two Saxons and missed the third one with the crossbow.

_Not to mention_, whispered a little voice inside, _how defenseless you were when that creature took your magic, and you had to scream for Gwaine's help against bandits outside the cave…_

"Yeah?" Arthur said, eyebrows raised. "That's what I thought."

"Well, far be it from me to cause you worry, sire," Merlin said dryly.

"That's right," Arthur pulled into a McDonald's drive-through. "And it took me an _hour_ to argue my father into letting us go this morning."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The NSA's shooting range was located in the basement of the building. Agents Chance and Frederick led the way into the main room, positioning themselves at adjacent booths, ready with protective gear for vision and hearing. Arthur, one step ahead of Merlin, instantly chose the booth where Gibson Chance waited. Merlin gave his friend a dirty look as he was forced to join Agent Frederick, who clearly wished to be anywhere on earth but there.

Already self-conscious, Merlin missed half of Frederick's mumbled instructions on stance, distance, aim, whatever. He had no clue what the several pieces of the handgun were called, or how Frederick reassembled them, though he nodded like a bobble-head doll whenever Frederick glanced at him. Briefly demonstrating how Merlin should know that the piece was loaded, "It's cocked," the blonde agent said, setting the piece down carefully. He reached to pull his own ear-protection into place, nodding over at Chance, who had also stepped back from the next booth over, where Arthur was hidden from Merlin's view by a wide panel.

A motor whirred faintly, and two sheets fluttered into view under the lights about half-way down the long room, black head-and-shoulders silhouettes on white paper.

Arthur didn't hesitate. Merlin jumped as the former king got off two shots, then three. Merlin held the pistol out in front of him, focused on the smallest marked area of the chest of the target, and squeezed the trigger. The pistol bucked in his hand and spat out a cylindrical piece of metal, and he almost dropped it, except that his fingers were twined around it in a death-grip.

Arthur finished his shots and the silence rang around them. Merlin stiffly put his gun down on the padded counter, and stepped back.

"You're meant to empty the magazine," Royce Frederick said in disgust.

Agent Chance pressed a button, and the sheets fluttered forward, approaching them by means of a track in the ceiling. Chance unclipped them.

"There's yours, Marvin," he said noncommittally. Merlin took the paper, noting the hole splashed through the center of the silhouette's head.

Arthur accepted his target sheet, leaning against the edge of the booth-divider. His eight holes were all well within the black area, and one on the line delineating the center from the next concentric ring.

"Not bad," Chance said with approval.

Arthur looked to see how Merlin had done. "You're meant to fire all the shots, Merlin," he said.

Merlin shrugged. "Didn't need to," he answered, indicating the hole in the target's head.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Shall we go again?" Chance offered.

They shot four more times, Arthur's aim improving noticeably. Merlin, however, restrained himself to a single shot each time. No matter where he aimed, head or chest, the bullet invariably went to the opposite part of the target – but always dead center. And once having penetrated his enemy's body, he felt sick at the thought of squeezing the trigger one more time, much less several. _Once is enough. Once allows me to run the opposite direction, or tear his weapon away with magic, or - whatever_. A thousand and one alternatives, based on the surroundings.

After the fifth round, Merlin left the range for the ready-room, watching Arthur and Chance continue their conversation through a thick window. Behind him, the door opened and closed, and Royce Frederick came to stand beside Merlin. "Not really your thing, is it?" Frederick said condescendingly.

"Not really my thing," Merlin said.

"Computers – are your thing, though?" Frederick swiveled slightly on his ankles to face Merlin. "You know, one of our analysts here is a friend of mine, and she said – they're still trying to work out the routes you used to find Mordred in Belgium."

"Took me a week," Merlin allowed neutrally.

"And…" Frederick spun the word out, "they've been on it for four months. She said you had them in knots figuring out your ap test."

"Hm," Merlin said, watching Arthur laugh at something Chance had said, tossing his head back, while Chance's expression remained grave except for one tiny twitch of a smile. He noticed that he could see a shadow of his own reflection in the window, and the blonde agent at his shoulder. _Monster_, the reflection whispered, grinning like mad.

"She said, what you did – was impossible." Frederick shifted his weight, and ended up half a step closer to Merlin, his eyes boring into the side of Merlin's face. He stopped himself flinching away. "I hear they call you Merlin," Frederick hissed. "A wizard with computers. They asked you to explain how you completed the tasks of the test so fast, and you said… magic."

Merlin remembered tossing the word out like a flippant joke, the analysts who were evaluating his test giving him strained smiles.

"Well, _Merlin_." Royce Frederick's lips were almost at his ear, and this time he did flinch, slightly. "Can you do – _magic_?"

"Merlin!" Arthur called cheerily from the door. "We're done here – are you ready to go?"

"Hell, yes," Merlin muttered, skittering away from Frederick and not stopping til he was behind Arthur again. "_Hell_, yes."


	5. The Black Knight

Chapter 5: The Black Knight

Merlin was exhausted, and pissed. He slung his duffel bag at the white-washed cinder-block wall so hard it rebounded and tumbled off the edge of the bunk. He turned and sank to the edge of the bed, ducking his head so he wouldn't knock it on the upper bunk.

"Don't be mad, mate," Gwaine had said, as he dropped Merlin off at Reagan Airport in his dark green Ford pickup. "Arthur worries about you – he wants you to be able to defend yourself. You know, just in case."

"It's not about the training," Merlin spoke for the first time that morning, since opening the front door of Gaius' townhouse to discover that Arthur didn't have the guts to face him, and had sent Gwaine to chauffer him instead. "Something's coming, like a freight train. Like a yard-full of freight trains. Like downtown during rush hour." He clamped his teeth on the impulse to babble.

"Yeah," Gwaine mouthed as a 747 screamed overhead, looking low enough to touch. "Your flight!"

"Tell Arthur," Merlin said, once the former knight could hear him again, "that Mary's files are a dead end – no Xander."

Gwaine didn't question him. "Anything else?"

Merlin had shrugged in response. "Tell him he's an ass."

He kicked the black duffel with his heel, wedging it under the bunk. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand around his scarred left wrist. "No jewelry," he'd been told, upon his arrival to this remote set of barracks on Caisson Hill, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. "And no electronics." They'd separated him from his laptop, his phone, and his iPod, locking it into a little metal box to await his subsequent retrieval. Next week. When this damn class was over.

His fingers trembled. A week. A week away from Arthur, a week in which anything could happen.

"Agent Chance thinks this is a good idea," Arthur had said. Oh – Agent Chance. Of course, damn him. And now he was the ruler to measure good ideas now, was he? "It won't kill you to work up some muscle, get familiar and comfortable with weaponry," Arthur had said. "I'll be going to the range about every other night – and next week I'll join you in Bragg for a couple of days."

Merlin hadn't been placated. Grudgingly resigned, maybe – he could tell when Arthur had his mind set on something Merlin didn't disagree with. But then came the kicker.

"Chance said Frederick told him there was one position still open for this class. Turns out the instructor is an old buddy of Frederick's. He'll take good care of you."

"Oh – Frederick promises I'll be safe and happy, does he?" Merlin had snarled. "Let me just lay my life right out on the line of Royce's reliability – and oh by the way, maybe _he_ can watch your back while I'm gone – just don't be surprised if you find a knife in it 'cause I'm not there to slow time and snatch you out of the way, you arrogant supercilious prick!"

Those were the last words Arthur would hear from him for a week. They'd taken his phone. They'd taken his laptop – anything at all could be happening in cyberspace, and he had no way to monitor it. Merlin threaded his fingers through his hair, clutching his skull between his hands.

"Hey," a voice said from the doorway. "I guess we're roommates for a week." Merlin looked up. The kid in the doorway looked even skinnier and younger than he did, scalp shining white through freshly-buzzed dark-brown bristle, brown eyes innocent and friendly. "I'm Casey," the kid added, "Casey Lindell." He dumped a duffel and a backpack onto the cot opposite Merlin's.

"Hey, Casey," Merlin said wearily. "I'm Marvin."

"I'm from Minneapolis," Casey continued. "Trying to get transferred to the Chicago office, and I need my status upgraded from marksman to sharpshooter before they'll consider me. FBI. Where are you from? What agency are you with?"

"D.C.," Merlin said. "NSA – well, I'm just on a consulting team."

Casey's smile was wide, and genuine. "Good to meet you, Marvin."

"Move out the way," a gruff voice abruptly ordered from behind Casey, sending him startling from the doorway like a spooked colt. A massive shape filled the open space, a guy carrying his duffel over shoulders as wide as Percival, but a full head shorter than the big knight. He probably weighed twice as much as Casey did, Merlin thought. He surveyed the room as if he owned it, and Merlin and Casey were interlopers, then dropped his camouflage-patterned bag at the foot of the bunk-beds. Without speaking a word, he snatched the folded set of clothes laid out on the flat pillow of the upper bunk, and disappeared into the room's bathroom.

Casey raised his eyebrows at Merlin, and opened his mouth, probably to comment on the behavior of their roommate, but a bellow echoed down the hall. "Tango-Echo-Mikes! You have two minutes to change and form a line, front and center, outside this barracks building!" A whistle shrieked three times. Casey scrambled to retrieve his own set of folded clothes and knocked over his backpack, spilling books and pencils and loose notebook papers in the process.

Merlin sighed. "If I'd wanted to be in the army, I'd've enlisted," he remarked to no one in particular.

"You better hurry," Casey hissed at him.

Merlin shrugged. "What can they do? Send me home?" He wondered if his position with the NSA would be jeopardized by noncooperation. He wondered if that would affect Arthur's relationship with the agency. He wondered if he cared. Arthur would be pissed. He shrugged to himself. That was nothing new. But Arthur would also be disappointed. And that was something Merlin found he could not bear.

So when the thickset third roommate stomped past, and Casey hopped after him still pulling on one boot, Merlin managed to be close behind, BDU trousers, matte black boots to match the t-shirt, and soft cap pulled low over his forehead, whistling softly between his teeth.

The first day was hell. The first night was oblivion.

Then they got up and did it all over again. At four-thirty in the morning, and in response to a bugle call designed to make them want to charge up a hillside in the face of flying enemy bullets.

Dawn passed unnoticed. North Carolina wasn't quite as cold as D.C. in October, but even mid-60's could be miserable when it was cloudy and windy and drizzling rain. Merlin's boots were heavy with mud, and he regretted every single cigarette he'd ever smoked, panting and gasping to keep up with Buell, while Casey tread lightly and noiselessly behind him.

Hiking in the woods. It hadn't sounded half bad when Sergeant Major Hyden had announced it last night before lights-out. Merlin hadn't had much opportunity to enjoy his bond with nature in this lifetime, coming from Seattle to D.C. He was actually looking forward to the quiet serenity, the breathless feeling of silent life, both new and ancient, growing around him, the freedom, the color, the beauty –

Merlin tripped over a rock in the path and sprawled face down in the mud, actually sliding a few inches back down the hillside.

"Come on," Casey said patiently from behind him, after a long moment of Merlin not moving. "Come on, you know you have to."

Merlin picked himself up and struggled up the rest of the path to the ridge. It reminded him of nothing so much as the patrols Uther had sent out the year after his ward was taken from Camelot. Every day, slogging through cold and wet on a quest utterly futile – and Merlin forbidden from explaining the futility of it for any number of reasons – only to get up the next day and do it again, because Uther refused to give up. And whether Arthur would have made a different choice, had it been up to him, was never discussed.

"Well, look at what we have here!" roared the sergeant major, a tall, imposing figure with a booming echo in his voice that made Merlin think of helmets with face shields. "What is a clumsy idiot like you doing in a place like this?" Yes, now it was perfect. Cold and wet on a pointless expedition, and now he was being insulted by his leader. Hell, he should feel right at home. "What was that?" Hyden boomed. "Speak up if you have something to say!"

"I said, Sarnt Major," Merlin hollered, "that I feel right at home, sir!"

"Well, pigs will wallow, won't they? Now, Tango-Echo-Mikes, since your fellow Caroban has decided to use our time for resting on the trail, we are late! Double time!" The rest of the young men in the group moaned, and several cast dirty looks and vicious glares at Merlin.

Merlin remained on the ridge as they sorted themselves into a single-file shuffle down the track. He gazed out over the treetops, brown and bare, a few still showing the orange and yellow and red of fall colors. He imagined the gleaming white stone of the citadel of Camelot, the way the sun hit just right and the pennants fluttered in the breeze. He tipped his face back, feeling the coating of mud pull at his skin as the drizzle helped not at all to wash it away. He could, he realized, clear the clouds away, sweep them from the sky and let the sun pour down instead. Warm and dry… and tempting.

But he'd gotten up at the ass-crack of dawn and with two swallows of coffee and five miles of wilderness trail behind him, he wasn't sure he could manage magic of that magnitude without exhausting himself to the point where he had to be carried back to the barracks.

Merlin opened his eyes and grinned – so where was the downside to that?

"Marvin!" Casey hollered, lingering at a bend in the track. "Come on!"

Merlin turned and loped after him, beginning to whistle.

The mornings were dedicated to physical training – calisthenics, running, hiking, whatever. The afternoons were dedicated to weapons training. They were expected, Hyden informed them, to be able to break down, clean, reassemble, load, and fire handguns, shotguns, patrol and precision rifles.

The range was open-air, the target a simple circle, black on white, paper on a wire frame stuck in the ground like a croquet wicket. Instead of booths, they had stations, rough square wooden tables ten to twelve feet apart to hold their gear, and places on the ground marked for firing from standing, kneeling, sitting, and prone positions. Hyden would demonstrate once, then stroll up and down the line behind them, bellowing corrections and abuse, with very little encouragement and absolutely no praise.

Cleaning wasn't so bad – Merlin was willing to bet he'd had more experience with cleaning weaponry and armament than anyone else, though it was experience outdated by 1500 years. But he was all thumbs with the breaking down and reassembling tasks.

Casey, at the station next to Merlin, worked with slow and exaggerated motions so Merlin could try to copy him. Merlin appreciated his roommate's effort, and the second time Casey performed this service, Merlin began to drawl, "Pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp…" Casey paused and looked up to catch Merlin's grin, then burst into great guffaws of laughter.

"Caroban!" Hyden bellowed. "You have just volunteered to run the trail alone tonight instead of joining the rest of us at the mess hall for dinner!"

When it came to firing the firearms, Merlin couldn't please the sergeant major any more than Agent Frederick.

"Caroban! Keep firing your weapon until it has been fully discharged!" Hyden screamed, more than once. "Caroban! You are not taking the time necessary to sight on your target! Caroban, you've just volunteered to tell the class your estimate of the wind velocity and slope difference between yourself and your target!"

In vain Merlin pointed out that he hit the center of the target every time. It seemed that the means were just as important as the ends, and it frustrated Hyden to concede Merlin's success as the top marksman in the class when Merlin fumbled through a explanation that lacked any sense whatsoever.

He felt, he realized, a little like Harry Potter, his first day in the dungeon potions classroom, forced to repeat, "I don't know, sir." Of course, that comparison brought a grin to his face, a grin which seemed to personally offend Hyden and resulted in "Down and give me twenty!" about twenty times a day.

"One day, Caroban," Hyden seethed into Merlin's ear after class was dismissed to dinner. "One day I will find out how you manage to hit that target without any talent or skill or understanding. One day I will figure you out."

Merlin quipped ironically, "Haven't fathomed me out, yet, sir?"

"Down and give me twenty."

Merlin obeyed, watching his muscles quiver and thanking his lucky stars that Arthur had not thought of such a punishment. He'd take the stocks any day over push-ups.

That weekend they were allowed two hours on Sunday afternoon for relaxation and recreation. Buell took himself outside to play football with the other class participants, dressed in their workout clothes of black track pants and gray t-shirt. Casey unzipped his backpack, while Merlin curled up on his bed with a book of firearm diagrams, reluctantly loaned to him by Buell. This method had worked when a farm boy need to learn to outfit a prince and a knight, after all_. I wonder_, Merlin thought to himself, with a smile, _if Gwen knows how to break down a Glock 19?_

After about half an hour, Casey moaned and let his book drop in his lap. "I've read the same page five times and it makes no sense," he complained.

"You need help?" Merlin offered.

"Would you?" Casey's grin was pathetically grateful. He spun the book over to Merlin's mattress. "There's a list of terms at the end of chapter five I have to be able to explain. Can you quiz me?"

"No problem," Merlin said, flipping the textbook open and searching for chapter five. After a moment he stopped and looked at the cover. General Psychology. "What are you taking this class for?" he said slowly.

"I'm trying to get an associate's in Criminal Psychology," Casey admitted, and his clear brown eyes were entirely guileless. Merlin silently paged to the end of chapter five. The chapter on schizophrenia. _Are you kidding me?_ Merlin said to himself. "If you could just say the term, and then tell me if I've explained it properly, that would be helpful," Casey said.

Merlin said, "Positive symptoms."

"Positive – that's all the psychotic behaviors not seen in normal people. That category includes hallucinations, delusions, and thought and movement disorders. Am I right?"

Merlin ducked his head. "Hallucinations." Hellfire, was he caught up in one right now? Was this really happening?

"Hallucinations are when you sense things that aren't really there. It can be any one of the five senses, but a lot of people have it where they hear voices in their heads."

_Like druids? Or dragons?_ "Delusions," he said.

"That's a belief that's not true or logical," Casey answered. "Like – I remember my instructor telling us about a patient he had that was convinced he was Napoleon."

Merlin's hands left the textbook to grip the edge of his bunk. _You're not Merlin the magician. You never knew King Arthur of Britain. You are not Merlin. You can't do magic. You never knew King Arthur. _"Stop it!" he said out loud.

Casey paused, frowning at him. "You okay, Marvin? You're white as a ghost."

Merlin gave him what was meant to be a wide innocent grin and felt more like a ghastly leer. "I'm fine," he said.

"Okay, so – delusions," Casey went on. "People with schizophrenia can believe that others are trying to harm them, that's paranoia –"

"It's not," Merlin said calmly, "it's not paranoia when others really _are_ trying to harm you."

Casey snickered like he'd made a joke. "Okay, skip to the next one," he said.

Merlin's head was beginning to hurt. "Cognitive symptoms," he said.

"That can include trouble focusing or paying attention," Casey answered. Merlin began to laugh. "What is it?" Casey said.

"My master – I mean, my boss – if he could hear that. _Trouble focusing or paying attention_…oh, hell…" Merlin scrambled up from his bunk, dumping the Psych textbook on the floor. One paragraph caught his attention – under the title "Are People with Schizophrenia Violent?" _People with the illness attempt suicide… 10% of young adult males…_ Merlin shuddered. "I need some air." He grabbed his near-empty pack of cigarettes and his lighter and escaped the room.

He made it as far as the porch and slid down against the wall. It took him three tries to light the cigarette, and he inhaled it like a drowning man rising to the surface_. I saved Gaius from falling, the day we met…. Gwen told me, she thought I was brave… Gwaine is a drunk, and a noble… Leon was healed with the Cup of Life… Percival is going to be a father… Your enemies are my enemies… Lancelot… Arthur…_

"Helldamnfire," he mumbled.

"Marvin?" Casey came out the barracks door, glanced around at Buell's game of football on the lawn, before coming to sit next to Merlin on the warped wooden porch. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Merlin said. He didn't bother even trying to grin.

"What happened?"

"Tell me the truth," Merlin said. "Swear to me on whatever you hold dear, did someone put you up to this?"

Casey's brown eyes were puzzled. "Up to what?"

"You really are just trying to earn your sharpshooter rank? You really are taking a psych class? It's just one big damn coincidence that you're rooming with me here?"

"I swear to you, I have had this week circled on my calendar since August," Casey said. "I've been working on my Criminal Psychology associate's since January." He squinted through Merlin's smoke at him. "You should know," he said slowly, "agencies like to play games with newcomers. Everything is a test."

Merlin inhaled deeply again, remembering. _Chance said Frederick told him there was one position still open for this class. Turns out the instructor is an old buddy of his_. "Damn him," Merlin uttered.

Casey said, "Addiction to nicotine is the most common form of substance abuse in people with schizophrenia." Merlin snorted his lungful of smoke. "You know, it's not paranoia –" Casey waved his hand – "if someone really is trying to get to you." He cleared his throat. "Ah, Marvin – I'm sorry."

"If you didn't know," Merlin said. "You have nothing to be sorry about."

Casey flipped his fingers in an unspoken request, and Merlin lit his last cigarette from the end of the one he held, and handed it over. He breathed in deeply at the same time as his roommate, and it helped.

"Hyden's got it in for you," Casey told him on Monday evening as they lounged on their bunks in the half hour of free time they were allowed between dinner and lights-out. "I mean, you specifically. Since day one, Marvin." By unspoken consent, the topic of Casey's class had been dropped, but Merlin knew Casey was still intrigued by the idea of someone arranging their meeting. He was FBI, after all.

"He can get in line," Merlin said. If he lay perfectly still on his bunk, his muscles didn't all hurt at once. He whistled a couple lines of the tune that had stuck in his mind all week.

"You too sore for some magic?" Casey said hopefully. He scooted to the edge of his bunk, eyes wide and eager. Both of them had needed some harmless fun to take the edge off the stress, and Merlin had found something that had sufficed.

Merlin stretched and rolled over. "Fine," he said. "What do you want me to use?"

"How about my pen?" Casey said.

"All right." Merlin felt his own face stretch into a grin. "Are you ready? Keep your eye on it this time." He held the pen between his hands, Casey's eyes riveted to the object. Then Merlin made a rapid stretching gesture that Casey attempted to follow – and the pen disappeared.

"Man!" Casey enthused. "I _didn't_ see it. Where is it? Where'd you put it?"

"No, no," Merlin warned him lightly. "I told you before, we never tell our secrets."

"So where's the pen?" Casey said, happy to be fooled. Merlin made a show of proving that each hand was empty, making sure his roommate's attention was not on his face to catch the golden gleam of true magic.

"What the hell are you doing?" a gruff voice demanded from the door.

"Check your backpack – front pocket," Merlin said to Casey, laying back down again.

"It's just sleight-of-hand," Casey explained to their other roommate. "Marvin's an amateur magician."

"It's just stupid, you mean," Buell sneered, mimicking Casey's tone, lounging against the white cinder-block wall just inside the door.

"Who's a magician?" Another voice came from the hallway, a voice that made Buell jerk upright and Casey scramble up from his bunk next to Buell. Merlin followed more slowly, standing to come to attention at the far end of the bunk-beds as Hyden's form filled the doorway. _Even King Arthur_, Merlin mused, _hadn't required such a ridiculous show of respect. Bootlickers, the lot of them._

"Sleight-of-hand, sir," Casey spoke up again.

"So – magic," Hyden said, stepping sideways to Merlin, facing the other two. "Buell, Lindell, out!"

Merlin felt a vague sense of unreality, as though the bunks and cinder blocks were no longer present, as though he and Hyden shared, instead, a courtyard beneath the window of the room where Arthur slept uneasily, awaiting a duel no one thought he could win. Merlin's hand twitched, instinctively wanting to encircle this man in a wall of rising flame. The menace that oozed from Hyden in the small space was sinister and nearly palpable.

Hyden's head was the only part that moved, snapping sideways to pin Merlin with a glare - so similar to the Black Knight's reaction to Merlin's fiery but unsuccessful attack that Merlin jumped.

"So – you do _magic_?" Hyden said, and Merlin remembered abruptly that the sergeant major was that 'old buddy of Frederick's'.

"Sleight," Merlin said breathlessly, "of hand. Misdirection. Sir."

"You're the sorriest excuse for a wannabe agent I have _ever_ had the misfortune to have in my barracks," Hyden hissed, stepping closer. "You're nothing without your computer, are you?" Hyden said. "All your little keys. Make you think you're so special. So powerful. Like magic. But this –" he gestured to the room around him – "this is the real world, son. And in the real world – I _own_ you." He took one step back, cleared his throat, then bellowed in a voice intended to carry to the far corners of the building, "Lights out!"

As Hyden stepped through the door, Casey slipped back in, followed by Buell, who went about his preparations for the night wordlessly. "What did he say?" Casey whispered urgently to Merlin, as they followed suit. Merlin shrugged, whistling through his teeth so the other two would not guess he was shaken, a little. "Where's my pen really?" Casey asked, glancing around.

"Backpack," Merlin managed to sound calm.

"But it's zipped," Casey protested, bending to check and coming up with the pen, open-mouthed with surprise. He showed it to Buell, who snorted. Merlin ducked into the space between the mattresses of the bunk-bed, folding his hands behind his head, whistling softly to cover his nerves.

He'd just been reminded that he could do nothing about Xander – by a friend of the man who had scoffed at the idea. In this day and age, Merlin did his sneaking and spying via the internet… it was like being tied to his bed in Gaius' chamber for a week. He'd forgotten – he'd almost forgotten – this metaphysical knot he'd been trying to untie. That he'd been prevented from untying by a well-timed suggestion from Frederick. By those who very well might have information on Merlin's psychiatric past, and have the ability to – do what? test him? unbalance him?

What could he do? He could physically walk right out of this barracks, and no one could stop him. He could make his way to Fayetteville, board a D.C.-bound plane. Hell, he could even take a car – with magic, considerations of cost or convenience were negligible. It was well within the limits of what he was _able_ to do. What then? He forced himself to relax. Then the explanations, the excuses. Arthur would be left to deal with the repercussions of Merlin's decision. He wondered for a tiny brief instant if that wouldn't serve Arthur right – to have to clean up Merlin's mess after years of Merlin doing that for him.

The knights, he reminded himself. Gwaine and Leon would look after Arthur. Gaius was clever, and Gwen intuitive. Arthur himself was highly capable in dangerous situations. Wasn't it, a little voice asked him, a little presumptuous of him to believe himself indispensible to his king? Wasn't it, the voice sniggered, _delusional_?

"What's that tune you're whistling?" Casey said, speaking into the darkness of the room the three of them shared.

"Oh, sorry," Merlin said. "I'll quit."

"No, I just mean – it's familiar, what is it?" Casey hummed a few bars of the melody himself.

"It's Send in the Clowns," Buell said, above Merlin, his deep voice holding an unexpected note of amusement.

"Send in the Clowns?" Casey said.

Buell said, in a perfectly flat voice, "_Isn't it rich? Aren't we a pair? Me here at last on the ground? You in mid-air. Where are the clowns? Isn't it bliss? Don't you approve? One who keeps tearing around, one who can't move. Where are the clowns? Send in the clowns_."

Merlin added, "_Don't bother, they're here_."

Casey began to snicker, and Merlin couldn't stuff his own laughter back when Buell added a deep guffaw from above. _Don't bother, they're here_…

_Lord, what fools these mortals be_, Merlin thought.

That night he dreamed he was washing his muddy BDU trousers in Gaius' kitchen sink, when Hyden on an enormous black horse crashed through the slider, glass splinters flying. _This is the real world!_ Hyden bellowed as the stallion stamped and sidled. _I own you!_

Merlin walked around the horse and down the hall to answer a knock on the door. Casey stood there, wearing a brown robe and clutching his Psych textbook to his chest. He held out his other arm to show Merlin a tattoo, a scar on the inside of his wrist, three white lines that matched Merlin's.

Gaius joined Casey in the doorway, grabbing his outstretched arm. _You see he is a Druid, Merlin,_ Gaius said, producing a syringe and sliding the needle into one of Casey's veins_. I _must_ test his DNA._

_DNA_, said Arthur's voice behind Merlin. He couldn't turn, couldn't see whatever look was on Arthur's face. _They can read it in your DNA if you have a disease_…

Then Gaius was at his side with the syringe, full of blood. _It's a cure, Merlin_, he said, using his best reassuring-the-patient tone as he pushed the needle into Merlin's arm. _It's a cure. You will feel better soon. You will be well again soon._

He felt strength draining away, felt himself slipping down, found himself lying on the floor as Arthur looked down on him. Shaking his head sadly, Arthur said, _It had to be done._

**A/N: Research on schizophrenia taken from National Institute of Mental Health website. Quotes also taken from Forrest Gump, Harry Potter, and Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream…. I think that's it for this chapter's credit citations!**


	6. Blood and Magic

**Chapter 6: Blood and Magic**

The office of Camelot Securities was very quiet. Leon was occupied with his Canines for Kids project, and Arthur was seated at the circular table in the middle of the room, all of Leon's material from his days as Thomas Drake's driver spread out in front of him. Planners, receipts, memos, travel vouchers.

The clock on the wall ticked audibly. How quiet it was when both Gwaine and Merlin were gone. Arthur didn't have the heart even to switch on the radio.

The door opened and Arthur and Leon looked up simultaneously to Gwaine's devilish grin. He sauntered in, dropped casually into the nearest chair, which happened to be Merlin's vacant desk-chair. "Well, he's away," Gwaine said. "One week without Merlin – how will you ever survive, princess?"

"My father has a housekeeper," Arthur informed Gwaine loftily.

"Oh, he said to tell you, Mary's records are a dead end," Gwaine remembered. "No Xander."

"Mary's records?" Leon asked. They knew that Arthur's father had forbidden Arthur from involving Mary.

Arthur said, "When the hell did he –" and stopped, remembering the look of concentration on Merlin's face as he stood over Mary at her desk, having been summoned by IT to fix something with her computer. But that had been _before_ Thomas Drake's refusal to allow access to her files… Arthur sighed. Merlin really did have a problem following the rules, if he saw an opportunity. He winced, thinking about the young sorcerer at a week-long training class run by a drill sergeant. "Did he say anything else?" Arthur asked.

"Yeah, he did." Gwaine's face glinted mischief. "He said to tell you he missed you."

Arthur snorted. "That wasn't what he said." Merlin had been spitting mad when they'd parted.

Gwaine shrugged. "It's what he meant."

Arthur picked up one of Leon's leather-bound schedule books and tossed it at Gwaine. "Make yourself useful," he said. "Xander."

At least Leon was organized, Arthur had to admit, shuffling through a folder of receipts, in chronological order, mostly to do with the cars Thomas Drake owned – gas tank filled, oil changed, detailing work. Nothing. He picked up the next folder, containing the travel vouchers.

"You know, it doesn't have to be a person," Gwaine mentioned. "Xander could just as easily be a group of people – a business, a company, an organization – or a place."

Arthur sifted through invoices for hotel rooms, printouts from toll-road quick-passes and parking validations. "Nothing and nothing," Arthur said, dropping the folders back into the carton Leon had carried in from his trunk that morning.

"After lunch," Gwaine proposed cheerfully, "You can help me read Leon's diaries."

"They're not diaries, Gwaine," Leon said mildly. "I'm going to be finished with this segment of the project this morning, Arthur – this afternoon all three of us can finish going through this material."

That afternoon, Arthur began with the first schedule record kept, when Leon first began working for Thomas Drake. Leon began with the most recent one, while Gwaine grabbed a new one at random. "Your life, mate," he grumbled good-naturedly to Leon, "makes for very dull reading. Now if I had been Mr. Drake's bodyguard and driver, this reading would be a lot more lively and entertaining."

"No doubt," Leon returned easily. "And much, much _shorter_."

Gwaine grinned, conceding the point. "No doubt," he agreed. "I wouldn't have lasted long in your job."

"Wait a minute," Arthur said. "What the hell is this entry – 'TD Do Spells work'?"

"Let me see that," Leon said. TD was Thomas Drake, they all knew that. "No, it's an 'r' that curved around so you thought it was an 'o'. _Dr. Spell's work_."

"Who's Dr. Spell?" Gwaine said, ready to be distracted.

"Dr. Spell was head of the lab before Gaius came here," Leon said. "About four and a half years ago, was it? Dr. Andrew Spell." Leon looked back down at the page of the book in front of him, and Gwaine shrugged, yawning as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Dr. Andrew Spell," Arthur said slowly. "Do you remember why he left?" The name echoed in his memory, it must have been right before he'd graduated high school. While his dreams were still bright in his mind, and the word 'spell' had held different connotations than phonetic or alphabetic.

"You mean, was he fired, or did he accept a better offer, or did he retire?" Leon shook his head. "I don't remember."

"I'll be Gaius knows," Gwaine put in wisely.

"Andrew… Xander…" Arthur mused. His vague memory suggested that Thomas Drake had been furious when he'd said the name. It had connected to Arthur's memory of Uther Pendragon ranting about sorcerers and enchantments. He turned around and leaned back, grabbing his phone from his desk and dialing the extension for the lab. "Dr. Gus, please," he said. "This is Arthur Drake."

"You want us to keep looking?" Leon said.

Arthur nodded. "Just in case I'm wrong."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gaius, it turned out, was involved in laboratory research until the end of the day, but Arthur was waiting in his office at five o'clock when the old physician returned, plastic eye goggles perched atop his bald crown, black-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. He stripped rubber gloves from his hands carefully, turning them inside out, one inside the other, then did the same with a second glove layer.

"Arthur," he said. "What can I do for you? Have you heard from Merlin?"

"Gwaine said he made the flight this morning," Arthur said. "He hasn't called yet."

"Have you called him?" Gaius said, looking at Arthur over the top of his glasses. He'd caught the mood of their last argument before Merlin left, Arthur expected.

"I left a voicemail," he said, not liking the defensive tone in his voice. "Gaius, I was wondering if you know anything about Andrew Spell."

"Dr. Andrew Spell," Gaius said, seating himself behind the desk and gazing toward the window into the lab. "My predecessor. This laboratory was built for him, you know. Your father funded his work."

_Dr. Spell's work_, Arthur thought. "Do you know," he said, "what he was working on?"

"Not specifically, no," Gaius said. "When your father approached me through a mutual medical acquaintance to offer me this job, he only said that the position had been left vacant. I gathered that he did not part from Dr. Spell on the best of terms, however, he was far too reluctant to speak of the man, even on a personal level, for the break to have been amicable."

"Anything you can tell me, Gaius," Arthur said. "Anything at all. Did they disagree about his work? Did they fight? Was Andrew Spell fired? And where did he go after leaving here?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know the answers to those questions," Gaius said, shaking his head. "However, I seem to recall – we found a few pages of his research jammed behind a drawer of one of the filing cabinets in this office."

"Did you keep it?" Arthur demanded.

"No, of course not – shredded long ago." Gaius steepled his hands, resting his chin on his fingertips. "He was, I understand, an epidemiologist. Studying DNA links to viral outbreaks, the effects of vaccines, biological warfare. Anthrax, smallpox, possible terrorist tactics."

Arthur felt cold, and couldn't rationally explain why. DNA. Smallpox. Andrew Spell. Xander. Just over a week ago Merlin had sat in the lab – Arthur could see the tan leather seat from where he stood – while Gaius drew blood samples to replace what had, presumably, been smashed along with every other sample in the lab. He remembered that Gaius had mentioned a preliminary report, and opened his mouth to ask after the results.

His cell phone rang in his pocket, and he glanced at the caller ID before answering. No name came up, but a number that he recognized as a satellite call originating with the naval ship Elyan was aboard. Strange – Elyan usually used his phone time to talk with his family, and Gwen relayed information between the former king and his former knight.

"Hello," Arthur said.

"Arthur," Elyan said. "I have five minutes before I have to be on duty."

"I'm listening," Arthur said, hearing in the former knight's voice a note of significance.

"Gwen said she told you about my friend who – went missing," Elyan said. "His name was Adam Longley."

_Was_. "What happened?" Arthur said. Gaius looked concerned, and Arthur held up one finger as a signal for the old man's patience.

"When Adam disappeared and the MPs said he went AWOL and they weren't going to open a missing person's case, I asked Percival to see what he could find."

"Percival?" Arthur said, surprised. How could Percival, stationed in Fort George Meade, MD, possibly help someone missing from San Diego, CA?

"Next to yourself, sire, he's our most experienced tracker," Elyan said in a voice of explanation. "Adam walked out of his house in Annapolis without his keys or wallet, leaving his car behind."

Annapolis – the Naval Academy was less than twenty miles from Fort Meade. That explained that, Arthur thought. He said to Elyan, "Go on."

"Percival picked up his trail easily. Followed him five miles northwest up the Severn River before he had to quit for the night. He searched the shores of the Little Round Bay over the weekend, and last night he - he found Adam's body."

"I'm sorry, Elyan," Arthur said.

Elyan cleared his throat. "The reason I'm calling, Arthur," he said, "is that when the authorities reached Percival, the medical examiner suspected that Adam had died of disease, rather than trauma or exposure – but it wasn't smallpox from the vaccine. The CDC was called in last night, and Percival is quarantined for the week." Arthur put his forehead in his palm. "Arthur, can you – will you do a favor for me?" Elyan said. "Do you have anyone that can keep tabs on the investigation? I would but –" he huffed a breath through the connection. "I'm on a boat at the far end of the Pacific." Arthur didn't know anyone in Percival's company, but – there was always Agent Chance, at Fort Meade. "Do you suppose Gaius –" Elyan said tentatively, then turned away from the phone to holler at someone else, "Roger that! On my way! Arthur, I've got to go."

"I'll see if Gaius can find out anything with the CDC," Arthur promised.

"Thanks, Arthur." The line went dead.

Arthur turned to Gaius. "You know anyone at the Center for Diease Control?" he said.

"I have a few contacts, sire," Gaius said. "Why?"

"You're going to have to ask them for a favor or two, I'm afraid," Arthur said, beginning to compose a text for Agent Chance. **Friend of ours found dead near Annapolis, CDC involved, team member quarantined. Any way NSA can help me get update on investigation?**

"The CDC," Gaius said slowly. "What is going on, Arthur? You don't suppose that this is connected to your suspicions about Dr. Andrew Spell?"

"I don't know," Arthur said slowly. "I don't know."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Thomas Drake refused outright to discuss Dr. Andrew Spell, scoffing at Arthur's idea that connected the former laboratory chief to the terrorist organization responsible for stealing the drones in June. By Wednesday Chance had informed Arthur that he'd gotten permission from the naval team as well as Percival's officers for him to cover the investigation as soon as he was out of quarantine. On Thursday, which was the day Percival was declared clean and released from custody, Gaius spent the day at Baltimore General, where the CDC's finest had performed the autopsy, and were currently running a wide range of tests. But by the next Tuesday, when Arthur left the D.C. area to drive south on 95 highway toward North Carolina, there were no real answers.

Arthur turned the satellite radio up almost full blast, driving as fast as the speed limit would allow. All right, a little faster. Truth be told, he was nervous. He and Merlin had not parted on the best of terms, and hadn't spoken for a week. At least they had the consolation of Chance's reassurance – what little it offered, under the circumstances – that Merlin would not be allowed to use his phone during the course. The lengthy and uncomfortable silence had not been by Merlin's choice, then, though it made Arthur's instincts itch to be out of contact with his sorcerer – his friend – so long.

Would he be angry with Arthur? Next of kin would be notified of any injuries that were life-threatening or of a nature to prevent course completion, but knowing Merlin and his lack of natural grace, there were any number of things that might have gone wrong but left unreported.

The guard at the main gate of Fort Bragg gave Arthur a map of the Army post, with the Caisson Hill barracks circled. The arms-room attendant at the barracks was just as helpful – eager, almost – to have Arthur depart again.

"The Tango-Echo-Mikes spend the afternoon at the range," the attendant told him. "There's a sign indicating the trail to your left off the porch – it's only about a hundred yards." Arthur's one-day special dispensation to attend the class, courtesy of Gibson Chance, meant he did not need to change his clothing for the class uniform. He was wearing, he realized, pretty much exactly what he'd worn to break into the drone hangar four and a half months ago – long-sleeve t-shirt, cargo pants, and boots all in black. He didn't even bother settling his overnight bag into whatever room he'd been assigned to, but started out on the trail.

It was cool, the sky mostly overcast, the afternoon sun breaking through occasionally to reach down with near-visible rays. Arthur heard two volleys of gunfire as he hiked the trail to the range, and someone shouting authoritatively as he came down the last hill into the open.

The tree-line was fifteen yards or so from the firing row, the class participants strung out to the left and right, facing away from the trail toward the targets in the field beyond. Arthur paused, searching the line for Merlin, somewhat surprised that the tall, lanky frame of his friend wasn't immediately apparent to him. The class instructor was at the far right, bellowing at the young man on the end. Arthur slowed the sweep of his gaze, searching – yes, there he was.

Arthur stood for a moment, watching his friend unaware. Merlin wore the same camouflage trousers as everyone else, tucked into black combat boots. There was a scrape on his right arm, just below the short sleeve of the black t-shirt, soft cap pulled low over his eyes. He stood next to one of the wooden tables at each firing station, sharing the surface with another young man, chatting casually with him, lit cigarette trailing smoke between them, his hands busy with the equipment on the table. He looked well, and not unhappy.

Merlin shifted so his back was mostly to Arthur, and the former king, instead of reporting to the instructor, crossed to his friend. He was five steps away when the instructor roared, "Re-assemble!"

Merlin glanced up reflexively, and his eyes fell on Arthur, instantly lighting with recognition, his irreverent grin flashing without hesitation, so wide Arthur couldn't help grinning in response.

Neither said anything. Arthur moved closer as Merlin's big bony hands flashed in the re-construction of his pistol, keeping time almost perfectly with the other young man at his side. Finishing the task by sliding a loaded clip into place with a click, Merlin stepped to Arthur, placing the handgun in his king's hand, barrel pointed safely downward.

Then he turned back to the table, mimed picking something up, something Arthur's mind instinctively recognized and defined as Merlin spun to slide the invisible sword into an invisible sheath at Arthur's hip, then retreated one pace to snap to attention and give Arthur a regulation Army salute. Arthur laughed out loud, reaching out to grab his friend and give him a shake of affection.

"You look almost glad to see me," Merlin said.

"You look almost glad to see _me_," Arthur countered.

"Well, you're alive," Merlin said.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You have a real talent for stating the obvious, don't you, Merlin," he said.

"All I'm saying is, I'm glad to see you survived the week without me," Merlin said. "I thought you were coming on Tuesday."

"It _is_ Tuesday," Arthur said, giving him a mocking smile.

"Already?" Merlin marveled.

"Comes around every week," Arthur reminded him. "Right after Monday."

"Every day here is Monday," Merlin said. He gestured to the young man next to him, who'd watched their exchange with a wide-eyed grin. "Arthur, this is Casey Lindell. Casey, Arthur Drake."

"Nice to meet you, Drake," Casey said as Arthur shook his hand, and to Merlin he added, "Your boss?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows at the word, and Merlin snorted. "For all intents and purposes," Merlin said with a facetious show of resignation.

"Do you call him Merlin because he can do magic?" Casey said disingenuously to Arthur.

"Magic," he said expressionlessly, standing stock-still.

"Yeah!" Casey enthused. "I've never seen anybody do the things he can do."

Arthur turned his gaze on Merlin, who winced and grinned shamefacedly. "_You_ know," he said. "Making small objects disappear – sleight-of-hand."

Arthur gritted his teeth. Here he had Agent Chance hesitating to allow Merlin's clearance and Merlin was brazenly showing off to a stranger. "Yeah, sleight-of-something," he growled to Merlin.

"What the hell are you doing cluttering up my firing range!" A deep voice boomed behind Arthur, causing the former king's metaphorical hackles to rise. He waited one moment before turning, gathering all his experience as a monarch to his bearing.

"Sergeant Major Hyden, I take it," he snapped. "I am Arthur Drake. Presumably you've been told to expect me this afternoon."

Hyden was a middle-aged career soldier, hard and lean, and unused to backing down to civilians. "You're late!" he barked.

"I make my own schedule," Arthur stated coolly.

"Arthur," said Merlin at his shoulder in a calm ironic voice, "this is the real world – and in the real world, he owns you."

"Lindell, back to your station!" Hyden ordered so abruptly the young man jumped and put his pistol down on the table before backing away. "Caroban –"

"Down and give me twenty," Merlin guessed, stubbing out his cigarette and positioning himself on the ground. Arthur smiled to himself, guessing it was a command Merlin had heard often that week.

Hyden's hard eyes returned to Arthur appraisingly; he glanced down at the weapon still in Arthur's hand. "Well," Hyden said, gesturing to the paper targets set up in the field. "Let's see what you can do with that thing."

Arthur made one shot at a time – standing, kneeling, lying down, at twenty, thirty, then fifty yards. Thanks to a total of four sessions at the NSA's basement range with Chance, Arthur was able to hit the target within three inches of the center each time, providing Hyden with the step-by-step monologue requested on what he was doing and why.

Hyden grunted. "You're not as accurate as your partner," he said. "Mind explaining that to me?" His gaze was focused down-range.

"Yes, I find that I do," Arthur said evenly. "No offense intended."

Hyden didn't look at him. "Normally, with results like Caroban somehow manages to achieve, I'd be recommending him to be advanced to sniper training. But –" Hyden swiveled abruptly to meet Arthur's eyes, his face inches away from the former king's. Arthur found his hand moving for the sword no longer at his hip, and tightened his grip on the pistol instead. "But," Hyden repeated, "Caroban isn't _normal_, is he."

"The man you speak of is my partner," Arthur cautioned the older man, softly.

The wrinkles around Hyden's eyes deepened. "Exactly," he breathed. "I feel quite certain you can explain the anomalies to my satisfaction."

"I feel quite certain that I don't have to," Arthur said. "Now, I just drove five hours down from D.C. because a friend of mine recommended your course to me. Have I wasted my time?"

"Have I wasted mine?" Hyden spat in Arthur's face, and moved around him, heading for the end of the line.

Arthur stepped back to Merlin's station, where his friend was stretching after his remedial calisthenics. "You've been using magic this week?" Arthur murmured to the young sorcerer. "Hyden is highly suspicious of your aim."

Merlin shrugged. "It's not really on purpose," he said. "I've tried hitting the target in a more ordinary spread pattern, but it just doesn't seem to work."

"_Hell_, Merlin," Arthur said between his teeth. "Your magic won't let you _miss_? What, has it got an ego of its own?"

Merlin shrugged again, gazing past Arthur with a quizzical look. Arthur turned to see one student after another, starting at the end, placing their weapon on the table of their station, and heading for the trail back to the barracks, some going with an air of confused resignation, some with eager relief.

"What's going on?" Arthur said, laying the pistol borrowed from Merlin down on the table next to them, beside the weapon Casey had left.

"I don't know," Merlin answered. "We haven't once quit while there's still light to see the targets by."

"Shall we go back to the barracks with the others?" Arthur murmured as Hyden marched past them without a word or a look.

Merlin bit his lip. "I don't think so. He can get very angry if you don't wait for orders."

"You mean, angrier than he already is?" Arthur said, trying to make a joke around the tension in the air. Casey left his station, giving Merlin a worried look as he walked slowly toward the trail, followed by a broad-shouldered blonde. Merlin didn't answer, watching Hyden, and Arthur focused on his friend, seeing a shadow in the depths of his normally clear blue eyes. "Merlin, has he been giving you a hard time?"

Merlin grimaced briefly in denial. "He's Royce Frederick's friend," he said.

Arthur remembered Merlin's departing rant. "You don't trust Frederick," he said, and it wasn't really a question.

"Frederick was curious about my ap test," Merlin said, his eyes still on the shooting instructor. "They asked how I'd done things on the computer skills section, and I said," Merlin's tone changed, mocking himself, "_magic_."

Arthur sighed, now understanding Chance's question of Merlin's mental stability. "_Idiot_," he breathed.

"I know," Merlin said, frustrated.

They watched Hyden make his way back to them, methodically checking the weapon at each station, unloading it, as the other class participants disappeared one by one, up the trail past the tree-line. He was too close, now, for Arthur to question Merlin further, so they waited in silence. Hyden glanced up as the last student passed from view, then came to lean on Merlin's station table in front of them, smiling wolfishly.

"So, boys," he said. "Now that we're alone, why don't we stop playing games and be honest with each other."

"Why," Arthur said frostily, "don't we." He considered taking charge of his friend and leaving the class and Fort Bragg that afternoon, that very moment.

"Your friend here," Hyden said, addressing Arthur, "does not grasp a single one of the basic principles of stance and support, the necessary breathing techniques, the mathematics involved in estimating slope and distance, factoring wind direction and velocity. Yet he never fails to hit the center of the target. Every time."

"My friend here," Arthur replied, "has some redeeming talents."

"Talents," Hyden said, as if tasting the word. "Yes. I've been told he might be – special. There are others who wonder just how _talented_ he might be." The instructor pushed up from the table, Casey's pistol in hand, leveled at Merlin's face.

Arthur reacted by holding up his hands palm out in a calming gesture, feeling like he'd gone from holding control of the situation to being very much a helpless bystander. Merlin's gaze took in the weapon mere inches from his nose, then locked onto Hyden once more.

"Don't be stupid, Hyden," Arthur warned, keeping his voice calm, though his heart was in his throat. "Put the gun down and we'll all –"

"No, I don't think so," Hyden interrupted. "Put the gun down and we'll never know for sure, will we? And I was given orders. Find out for sure." He stepped closer to Merlin suddenly, bending his elbow so the handgun was next to his face instead of extended at arms' length. "They call you Merlin, don't they," he said to the sorcerer. Arthur had rarely seen his friend's eyes so icy hard, so calculating. "It's a secret, isn't it? The _talents_. Some would say – magic." Merlin said nothing. "And this?" Hyden circled just enough so the three of them formed a triangle, where each could see the other two. "This is your King Arthur, isn't it?" the instructor said.

Merlin's eyes flickered briefly to Arthur, and one hand came up in an involuntary defensive gesture.

"Oh," Hyden sighed. "_That's_ how it is. I see. You'd take a bullet, wouldn't you? Trust that you're _special_ enough to survive. But _him_?" Hyden swung the pistol around to point straight at Arthur's heart, two inches from the black fabric of his shirt.

A look of sheer desperation passed over Merlin's face, replaced by one of fatal calm.

"Hyden," Arthur tried again. "You know who I am. Who my father is. Who my friends are. You want to rethink this. Very. Carefully."

Hyden pulled the trigger.

Arthur heard the noise of the discharge as an ear-numbing explosion. He felt nothing. Hyden stared into his face with a rabid fascination, then his eyes dropped to Arthur's shirtfront as if to bore a hole there that the bullet failed to do. Merlin had not moved a muscle, his eyes focused on the weapon to the exclusion of all else. Hyden pulled the weapon back to examine it, as if unsure it had actually fired anything.

Arthur reacted instinctively, lunging closer to Hyden and closing his fingers around the weapon, trying to wrest it from the instructor's grasp. His ears were ringing – was someone hollering from far away, or was that his imagination?

They grappled, and the pistol lined with Merlin's motionless body once again. Arthur spun to place himself between the barrel and his friend, instinctively trusting that Merlin would protect him, Arthur, more thoroughly than himself.

Hyden squeezed the trigger again, and blinked as the casing flew up between his face and Arthur's.

Arthur felt nothing. No pain. He continued to struggle with Hyden, hampered by his need to contain the weapon, while the instructor fought to discharge it, wildly uncaring which direction the bullet would travel. Hyden's left fist came from nowhere to smash into the side of Arthur's face, momentarily stunning him as they stumbled into Merlin.

Arthur tripped over Merlin's boot, his own momentum tearing his hand from it's purchase on the weapon as he knocked his friend backward to the ground, breaking the sorcerer's concentration. Two more shots sounded, then Hyden said, "Ooof!" as a large square figure tackled him to the ground.

Arthur rolled away from Merlin, scrambling to reach Hyden's right arm again, the arm that ended in the deadly weapon. Still another blast deafened him, and he pried the pistol from Hyden's fingers, rolled and came to his feet, gasping for breath and aiming the piece instinctively at Hyden.

"Don't you move a muscle," he ordered the instructor, who froze flat on his back with his hand up to signal his compliance. Merlin crouched over the newcomer, the broad-shouldered blonde, who was groaning and writhing on the ground. There was blood everywhere, on Merlin's hands and trousers. "Merlin, are you hurt?" Arthur demanded with his first full breath of air.

"No, it's Buell," Merlin answered shortly. He glanced up, past Arthur, and shouted, "Casey, get to a phone and call for help!"

"How bad is it?" Arthur asked.

"It's bad." Arthur heard the despair in his friend's voice, and spared him a glance. "Arthur, I need to help him. I need to try." His eyes were wide with the plea for Arthur's understanding. Not permission.

"Merlin," Arthur warned. On the ground, Buell coughed as he squirmed weakly on the ground, and blood flecked his lips. He moaned in agony.

"No!" Merlin said urgently. "No one else dies because of me!"

"Put pressure on the wound," Arthur told him calmly, holding his gaze. "Use both your hands and – keep a steady pressure. Eyes on your work, and focus on staying calm." Merlin nodded, understanding the deeper meaning of Arthur's instructions.

Hyden shifted so he could see the pair, the young man he'd shot and the teenager trying to help. Arthur menaced the instructor with the handgun again, and Hyden subsided. No words were necessary.

Keeping his eyes on the shooter for any further malicious intent, Arthur could still see Merlin in his field of vision, bending over Buell, his blood-smeared hands spread over the glistening stain just below the other's sternum. The sorcerer's hands pressed down, but it seemed to Arthur that Merlin's touch was gentle rather than firm. Thick red liquid oozed over Merlin's fingers and Buell grew more pale and still. Merlin's mouth moved, though no words were audible. His hands shifted position slightly, but the movement was controlled rather than panicked.

Arthur could not have said how long the four of them held that macabre tableau, until he heard sirens in the distance, and a shouting and rustling of hurried footsteps through the wooded area where the trail led. They were surrounded in the blink of an eye, figures in military uniforms and medical uniforms, weapons at the ready, emergency bags yanked open for the life-saving equipment inside.

Arthur raised the pistol to indicate he did not intend to fire it, laid it carefully on the ground a good yard away, and sank to his knees with his hands behind his head – law enforcement tended to listen more carefully and calmly when they were the only ones armed.

"Pulse is strong," Arthur heard one EMT say. "There's a lot of blood here, but the bleeding seems to have slowed considerably. How close was he to the gun when he was shot?"

Merlin stammered, "I don't know."

"It doesn't look like close range," the EMT concluded. "Slap a field bandage on it – who's got the stretcher? Yeah, he'll be fine til we get him to the hospital – well done, kid. Looks like your friend will be just fine."

The MP at Arthur's side allowed him to stand and drop his hands, while another secured Hyden's hands behind him with cuffs. Arthur turned to Merlin, whose blood-covered hands were shaking, his face pale with shock.

"Take it easy a minute," Arthur instructed him. "Are you all right? You weren't hit anywhere?" Merlin shook his head numbly. "Well," Arthur said, lightly teasing, "I'm fine, thanks for asking."

Merlin gave him a reproachful look. "I know," he said.

"You made sure of that, didn't you?" Arthur said, shaking his head as Merlin let his drop forward.

Across the noise and confusion, Hyden said one word clearly, his eyes on them, and blazing. "_Magic_."


	7. An Act of War

**A/N: Another 'bits and pieces' kind of chapter, but it all felt important…**

**Chapter 7: An Act of War**

Merlin crouched on the floor of the shower stall, letting the flow of hot water rain down on him. He'd lost track of how long he'd been in there, but the water that poured into the circular central drain was clear, no longer tinged pink by the blood Merlin scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed again from his hands.

He blinked at his hands through the droplets. No more thick coppery-crimson smear, no more subtle dark red flakes in the creases of his hands, in his knuckles around his fingernails. He'd found it hard to look at much else, while he was giving his statement to the Fort Bragg military police. They'd separated him from Arthur during that time – to see how well their stories matched, probably, to best gauge the truth of the matter – or else he'd at least have been able to keep his eyes on the king.

Rivulets coursed over his hands, down his forearms, dripped from his elbows, now hiding, now magnifying those three scars on his wrist.

"You're a problem," he said aloud. "You're a burden." Those three lines represented three failed attempts to solve the problem for those around him, to lift the burden. _You're a failure_, he didn't say aloud.

_You're a monster_.

"Merlin, you haven't drowned in there, have you?" Arthur's voice, outside the barracks' bathroom door.

He stood and turned off the water, dripping and shivering in the silence. "It's a shower, Arthur," he called back, lightening his tone so his friend would not worry. "You can't drown in a shower." He reached for a towel.

"I bet you could manage," Arthur grumbled, but left Merlin alone to finish.

The EMTs had given Merlin something not unlike the sedative their brethren had administered in June on the lawn of Camelot headquarters, to get Merlin to let them tend Arthur's body. He walked somnolent through the leave-taking of the rest of the class, gathering vaguely that the remainder of the course time was free time for them, and the bus would arrive as scheduled to convey the participants to the airport in Fayetteville on the morrow.

"I was glad to know you," Casey told him in a moment more lucid than the rest.

His black duffel was in Arthur's hand as they left the room. And Merlin might have walked straight past the arms-room lock-boxes if he'd been left on his own. Reminded, he collected his phone and iPod, stashing them in the pouch pocket of his hoodie, and clutched his battered laptop to his chest. Out the front door, across the porch, down the steps to Arthur's waiting Mustang.

Arthur crammed the duffel into the back seat. "Buckle your seatbelt," he reminded Merlin, who obeyed, before pulling the sweatshirt's hood over his head, to provide some padding where he rested it against the window, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

Arthur turned the key in the ignition, and the satellite radio snapped on. _I'll fake it through the day/ With some help… from johnny walker red/ Send the poison rain… down the drain…_

The Mustang bumped over the dirt road, down from Caisson Hill, back to the main post_. A man in the park… read the lines in my hand… told me I'm strong, hardly ever wrong… I said, man, you mean you…_

Leaving the guarded gates of the fort behind, they drove down Bragg Boulevard through Fayetteville during rush hour. Five o'clock pm. _It's a comedy of errors, you see… It's about taking a fall… To vanish into oblivion… is easy to do…_

"It was a good job with your friend," Arthur ventured, taking the on-ramp to 95 highway north. "His name was Buell, right? It must be difficult to judge just how much to heal so no one gets too –"

"Too suspicious?" Merlin said dully. _ And I try to be… but you know me/ I come back… when you want me to_… "It's my fault."

"What do you mean?" Arthur said. "Hyden –"

"I thought they would appreciate it," Merlin interrupted. "I thought they'd be glad to find Mordred, arrest him. I thought they'd want to know – they had a right to know – what I can do with a computer system. It was a challenge, it was interesting, it was _fun_ to see what I could do. I was doing it for them, after all, I was doing it for –" _I was doing it for_ you.

"The NSA, you mean?" Arthur said softly, clarifying.

"I should have known," Merlin said. He thought hazily, that he should know better than to keep babbling, but there seemed to be a slight disconnect between his brain and his mouth. "I should have known that the experts there would notice. I shouldn't have said _magic_ I should have lied I should have lied –" His voice broke. "_Arthur_. I'm so tired of lying I don't want to lie anymore –"

"Merlin, enough." Arthur's voice tried to be soothing, but it carried an edge. "You're fine. You're safe, and I'm safe, and it wasn't your fault. It's been a rough afternoon, all right?" The former king's voice trembled a little what they both knew to be an understatement. "Why don't you try and get some rest, get some sleep? It's going to be close to midnight when we get back to Alexandria."

"Is it going to be too much to ask for to have the day off tomorrow?" Merlin said in a voice that sounded hollow to him.

"Merlin –"

"Never mind, Arthur." Merlin clamped his mouth shut, leaned his hood-padded head against the passenger-side window.

It _was_ his fault. Arthur didn't understand. Merlin had made a mistake, a miscalculation about the National Security Agency. Frederick wanted to know what he was capable of. His friend Hyden had concluded magic like a fanatic convert. And Buell had been shot.

Merlin cleared his throat. "We're in trouble, Arthur," he said. Arthur said nothing – had he already figured it out, then? Probably. His king was tactically astute, after all. "Hyden said he was given orders. To find out for sure. To find out about me. He said there were others who… wonder." He glanced at Arthur, whose jaw was tight as he drove, focused intently on the road.

"Merlin, please don't worry," Arthur told him – it was almost an order. "You protected me for _years_ in Camelot. Do you think I will do any less for you? You are in no danger."

"But –"

"Merlin." His king's voice was stern. "Hyden was arrested for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. He'll be charged – maybe even with attempted murder. No one will believe a word he says. I'll speak to Chance, complain about Royce Frederick's over-reaction to a joke, the danger we were all placed in by Frederick's friend. That'll be the end of it." Arthur sounded sure, and determined.

Merlin wished he could feel as confident. Something was coming. Hyden's attack was like the whistle blast as the train approached a crossing. It was a warning.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin tried to sleep in on Wednesday morning, he truly did. At least for Gaius' sake, if not his own. It had been a late night, driving back north to Alexandria, and his grandfather had been awake and waiting for them when the Mustang pulled up at the townhouse.

Only it didn't work out quite as Merlin planned. He woke early, tangled in his bedding, drenched in a cold sweat and nauseated with terror from unremembered dreams. The find-a-happy-place pill they'd given him on the firing range had worn off, leaving him as alert and jumpy as if he'd chugged a whole pot of full-strength coffee.

At that thought, Merlin rolled out of his bed and padded downstairs in his pajama pants and t-shirt to let the Scottie out and set a pot to percolating in the kitchen. Without conscious intent, his magic reached out to bring the radio to life, to soothe and calm and collect his thoughts with music.

_When the night… has been too lonely_, Bette Midler crooned. He usually didn't care for her, but there was something about this song. He left the radio alone – it was almost over, anyway_. And the road… has been too long/ And you think… that love is only/ For the lucky… and the strong_…

Gaius emerged from his bedroom, belted into a dark blue dressing robe and bed slippers, and Merlin grimaced. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." _Just remember… in the winter/ Far beneath… the bitter snow…_

Gaius waved the apology away. "I have too much on my mind to find my bed restful at the present," he said. _ Lies the seed… that with the sun's love… _The old man reached in a cupboard for two packets of instant oatmeal.

_In the spring…becomes the rose_…

Merlin handed him two blue-rimmed bowls from the draining board next to the sink. "You too, huh?" he said.

"Yes. I am trying to persuade the lovely people at the CDC to give me a set of Adam Longley's samples to run my own tests on, here in Camelot Laboratories, but they are ever disinclined to share, and of course after the break-in earlier this month our security is in question, and –" Gaius stopped, midway to the microwave with the bowls of watered oatmeal mix in either hand. "Arthur didn't tell you this?" he said.

Merlin circled the kitchen peninsula to let the Scottie back in, then dropped onto one of the bar stools as the little white dog jumped up on the second, next to him. "No, he didn't."

Gaius programmed the microwave, his back to Merlin, and as the appliance hummed over their breakfast, he said, "I expect there wasn't occasion. It is a rather convoluted story, and you have had your own worries this week."

Merlin snorted. "Yes, if having a homicidal drill sergeant bent on making me prove I have magic breathing down my neck all week, then trying to shoot Arthur point-black in the chest can be called a _worry_."

Gaius grunted. "Are you going in to work today?" he said.

"Wednesday morning," Merlin said. "Athur's weekly Round Table meeting with Leon and Gwaine. I should find out how their projects are going, after all." He said to himself, _I should find out if they've made any progress with Xander_. The altercation with Hyden had pushed the name right out of his mind.

_I should look_, he thought, _into Royce Frederick and Sergeant Major Hyden._ Perhaps he could pick up a link to Xander there, if there was one to be found, or at least find out who Hyden's others might be.

The microwave beeped the readiness of the oatmeal, and Gaius opened a drawer to find spoons. "You mind if I take this upstairs with me?" Merlin said. "I need to get ready for work."

"Go," Gaius nodded, waving his permission one-handed. "Go, my boy."

.….*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The three of them sat at the circular table in the middle of the office of Camelot Securities. Leon was sketching on a legal-sized notepad propped on one khaki-covered knee, while Gwaine ripped tiny bits of paper off one of his own pages, crumpled them into pellets, and flicked them at Merlin, who'd frozen each one in midair. It was distracting enough that he didn't pay full attention to the research he was conducting on his laptop, using ordinary methods rather than funneling his magic into cyberspace. As a result, he wasn't getting anywhere.

"What the hell," Arthur said from the doorway. The bruise on his jaw was a medium brown, but no longer swollen, Merlin was glad to see. "Damn, you all look super-productive. Gwaine, are you done making Merlin into a snow-globe?"

Gwaine threw back his head in a great hoot of laughter, and Merlin couldn't help smiling. With a sheepish glance at Arthur, he gestured a small circle with his fingertips, gathering the bits of paper together and sending them cometing to the waste basket in the corner.

Arthur took his seat. "Are we ready to work today?" he said, still mockingly scolding.

"Are you?" Gwaine cheerfully accused, "You're late, princess."

"Private call," Arthur informed them, his tone turning serious. "Agent Chance. If no one minds, I want to use this meeting time to consolidate and organize our information, make sure we're all aware of every aspect, discuss whatever ideas we have to move forward with."

"Here." Leon ripped the top page from his writing tablet and handed it to Arthur.

"What's this?" Arthur said.

"Chronological sequence of events," Leon said simply. "And a flow chart demonstrating connections and relationships."

Arthur studied the page. "This is excellent, Leon," he said. "Really useful."

"So we have the June – drone – plot thing," Gwaine said. "Technology stolen and sold to terrorists, with an eye toward damaging Camelot Technologies."

Leon smiled faintly. "Metaphorically and actually."

"We believe that Mordred was working for Xander at this time," Arthur said. "From this we can assume that Xander is not only well-connected and clever, but greedy, vindictive, and cares little for not only the damage to property and loss of life those drones would have caused, but also the damage to the stability of six of the leading nations of the world. Now, what do we know?" he continued. "If Xander is Dr. Andrew Spell, the previous head of Camelot Laboratories, we know he was – is – a highly killed scientist who dealt with biological warfare as it relates to terrorist threats."

Leon said, "Is Elyan's friend from Annapolis connected?"

"I think we have to wait for the CDC's report before we know for sure," Arthur answered. "The timing is highly coincidental, but he could have died from any number of unrelated causes." He spun away from the table to call up his email on the screen of his desk computer.

Merlin's gaze dropped to his own laptop, which seemed to be running a half-second slow, even without the boost of his magic. He half-heartedly scanned one of the journal articles Dr. Spell had written six years ago, during his tenure at Camelot.

For an instant the screen flashed black, with tiny red letters in the very center. **hello merlin**

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, and Leon and Gwaine both looked at him. He bent over the keyboard, trying to backtrack, isolate the black screen, find where it had come from, but there was nothing. It was like trying to grasp a wisp of smoke between thumb and forefinger.

"Found something, Merlin?" Arthur asked without turning. After a moment in which Merlin hesitated, Arthur continued, "Percival said he'd email me a copy of the crime scene report from Adam Longley's apartment this morning. They've concluded that he was in the process of packing to move, though he had no orders to leave Annapolis, and the lead investigator found no evidence that he planned to move off the installation to a community housing situation. Evidently in the middle of packing he simply walked out."

Arthur's mouse clicked in the stillness of the room. Merlin's screen flashed black again, again the red words – **i look forward to meeting you**

Merlin lunged for the machine, fingers flying, but the screen flickered back to Dr. Spell's dry article on the linkage he'd found between hereditary DNA and vaccine reactions, and no matter how Merlin coaxed, the laptop stubbornly refused to admit that the internet link had been disrupted at all.

_Hallucination_? a little voice whispered.

Merlin hissed, "Dammit," in frustration, shoving the laptop away across the table. He looked up to find all three pairs of eyes on him, Gwaine with interest, Leon with concern, and Arthur with merely a cocked eyebrow.

"Care to share, Merlin?" Arthur said.

He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at his treacherous computer. _Hallucination_? "No."

"I was going to add Percival's notation that no boxes were found at the apartment," Arthur said. "Empty or packed. And the light bulbs had been removed from lamps and fixtures alike."

"That's an odd sort of thing to want to pack," Gwaine said. "I thought you were supposed to leave stuff like light bulbs and toilet paper."

"There's no wife or girlfriend," Arthur commented. "And his other family members say they hadn't spoken to him since a Labor Day reunion – he seemed fine, everything normal. No talk of leaving Annapolis."

"Well, something happened to him," Leon stated.

Halfway across the table, the laptop winked a diabolical red word from hellish black depths. **soon**

Merlin shoved his chair back from the table so hard he crashed into the corner of his desk. The screen, mild and boring, had returned to the scientific article.

Leaping to his feet, he avoided their eyes. "Smoke break," he said, and escaped the room, striding through hallways hunched over his folded arms til he found himself in the break room, and slipped out the back door, squatting down next to the outer wall, beside the bucket of butts and sand. Something clattered from his pocket on the sidewalk next to him, and he froze.

His pocketknife. His hand covered the knife, seemingly of its own accord, squeezed tight. It occurred to him that he never had paid for this knife.

Twice Merlin had been arrested for shoplifting, though no charges were ever brought. Both times stolen articles had been found in his satchel, but no one had seen him reach out his hand to steal, and security cameras in both instances had indicated his hands had remained in his pockets.

Merlin didn't need his _hands_ to steal, after all.

He remembered the first time clearly, walking through the convenience store, stomach growling with hunger, but he didn't want to return to his foster home. Not until he absolutely had no other choice.

"Hey kid, buy something or get out," the clerk had said.

Five minutes after he'd walked out the door, he'd tripped on the sidewalk – and spilled two candy bars and a bag of chips from his satchel, that hadn't been there before.

Merlin grimaced, crouched on the cold concrete outside Camelot Technologies, clutching his knife. Remembering the childish confusion. The conclusion – inadequate, of course, but what was he _supposed_ to think? – that someone, a kind stranger, had tucked the snacks anonymously into his satchel. A fairy godmother. Someone who often walked behind him, unseen, and made sure he left a store with what he needed.

Usually it was food. Once, this knife.

Without looking, Merlin flipped the knife's largest blade open. It was this knife that had carved those scars in his wrist. He laid the flat of the steel cool against his skin, though of course he wouldn't. He didn't even want to. Not really. He had family now to care what happened to him - his grandfather, friends. Freya, his love. And Arthur.

He shut the knife carefully, slid it back into his pocket.

The door opened beside him and Arthur came out, offering his pack of cigarettes and his white-dragon lighter. "Kind of need these for a smoke break, don't you, Merlin?" he said neutrally. Merlin grabbed them like an eleventh-hour reprieve from the governor's desk. His hands were shaking, and he knew Arthur noticed, but the former king only said, in a conversational way, "Percival is going to follow any leads that come up on Adam Longley there in Annapolis. Gaius is trying to get permission to run his own series of tests at the lab –"

"Yeah, he told me this morning," Merlin said, inhaling eagerly.

"You know, those things really will kill you," Arthur said, and Merlin squinted critically up at him through the smoke. Arthur sighed. "Chance said Hyden is pleading no contest to the charges, and refuses to give any statement whatsoever." Merlin grunted, and Arthur added, "That's good news, Merlin. At least he's not babbling about your magic to anyone who'll listen. Chance said you can go to the NSA office next week when Hyden's lawyer wants your deposition. Oh, and evidently Frederick is giving both of us a formal apology for the part he played in the incident, relaying confidential office information outside the agency."

"He can go to hell," Merlin said.

Arthur didn't disagree. "You know, Merlin, you can still take the day off, if you want to."

Merlin drew deeply on the stub of the cigarette, then flicked it into the sand bucket beside him. "I'm good," he said shortly, accepting Arthur's hand up.

The problem Merlin faced was both simple and complex. Of Xander there was no trace. Of Dr. Andrew Spell there was a neck-high sinkhole of information. The trouble would be to know what, if anything, was pertinent. And whether the identity could be confirmed. A secondary problem was that, since his break with Camelot Technologies, Dr. Spell seemed to have gone into aggressive reclusion. Merlin couldn't find where he'd been, or what he'd done since, or where he was now, and subsequently was forced to pick through the rest of the information for clues.

He fluctuated between two extremes. For hours he'd hunch over his computer system, running the keyboard til his wrists and fingers ached, til his head pounded and he felt ready to pass out from the exhaustion that sometimes still accompanied the expenditure of too much of his magic at once. And then sometimes he would retreat to the window and stand staring at the parking lot, as far away from his computer system as he could get without leaving the room.

His laptop was still on the circular table in the middle of the room. No one had touched it or moved it. No one had mentioned it.

Wednesday afternoon as Arthur was leaving, he said, "You sure you don't want a ride to Baltimore this weekend?"

"No," Merlin said, not turning from the window. "I have a date with Freya on Friday, and the deposition in Fort Meade first thing Monday morning. Gaius said he'd drop me off on his way to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and pick me up again at the end of the day."

"Well," Arthur said. "Good luck on both counts."

Merlin didn't turn. "Thanks. Have fun in class." Belatedly he thought to tease, _don't get into any fights without me_, but the door had already closed behind Arthur.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"What's wrong, Merlin?" Freya asked, her breath stirring the hair by his ear.

"What?" he said, turning slightly. They'd been given a booth in Lucky's, a sports bar and grill, but shared one of the bench seats rather than facing each other across the table. For all that they'd agreed to take the relationship slowly and build it on more than love at first sight, Freya did enjoy the physical comfort of cuddling. Merlin, of course, minded that not at all.

"Won't you tell me what's wrong?" she said coaxingly. "Last weekend you were playing soldier in Fort Bragg, and I didn't get to see you – though I would have liked to, there _is_ something about a man in uniform…" Her voice was teasing, and he smiled faintly in response. "The weekend before that you were in Baltimore, and Merlin – you've gotten into fights both times."

"It seems I need a woman's calming touch," Merlin said, reaching for a French fry smothered in chili and cheese.

"Aren't you going to answer my question?" Freya said.

He shrugged. "It's work."

She murmured, "It always is."

Merlin gave her a grin. "Well, you know, they can't get along without me."

"_I _can't get along without you," she said pointedly, her fingers caressing the back of his neck beneath his hair. "Merlin – where is this going?"

He knew what she meant, but took refuge in the dumb-male response. "Where is what going?"

"This," she repeated softly. "You and me."

Half a century, a decade, a month. He said lightly, around the tightness in his throat, "Why don't we wait to have this conversation until we're twenty?" He nudged her with his hip, scooting sideways until her legs swung free of the booth, and he was able to stand. "I'll be right back," he told her.

Merlin went to the bar. Briefly using magic to persuade the bartender that his birth year was 1990 on his ID, he swallowed a shot of Captain Morgan, and poured a second and third into his Coke. Stopping by the old-fashioned juke box in the corner he fished out two quarters from the hip pocket of his jeans to program the machine properly, then used his magic again to assure his chosen song would play next. _Could I have this dance… for the rest of my life…_

He took his rum-and-Coke back to the table, where Freya picked daintily over their appetizer. _Could you be my partner… every night_…

"Let's not talk about work," he proposed. "Let's not talk about the future, or the past, what we want, what we're afraid of – none of that." _When we're together… it feels so right…_ "Let's just – enjoy this night?" He rested his arm along the top of the backrest, and she snuggled up to him again.

"What shall we talk about, then?" she said. He breathed in the scent of her hair, and she leaned forward to sniff at his glass of soda, settling right back without looking at him or commenting.

"You talk," he said. "I'll listen. Talk about your family. Your pets when you were a kid. Where you went on vacation. Normal stuff_." I'll always remember… that magic moment… when I held you close to me…_

"Normal stuff?" she said. "Are you sure you want to hear it? Normal is boring."

"Normal is fascinating," he told her. As she began to talk, and he slowly downed his drink, the internal knots began to relax.

_Can I have this dance… for the rest of my life…_

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"What's wrong, Merlin?" Gaius asked from the passenger seat of the Prius. The radio played the old man's selection of classical music. _There's… a summer place/ Where it may rain… or storm/ Yet I'm safe and warm…_

"What?" Merlin said.

"You haven't heard a word I've said," Gaius accused him. "What are you thinking about?" _All their hopes… All their dreams… All their love…_

"I've heard you," Merlin defended, gesturing briefly at the insulated case between Gaius' feet on the floor of the car before returning his hand to the steering wheel. "The CDC is allowing you to bring your research materials to them, and you expect to have the answers you're looking for by the end of the day."

"Hm," Gaius said, one eyebrow shifting upward as though he wasn't convinced by Merlin's show of comprehension. "It will be a long day, Merlin. I don't know how long your deposition will last. You may find yourself at loose ends. Why didn't you bring your computer?"

_Yet I'm safe and warm_… Merlin shrugged. "I left it at work on Friday," he mumbled. He'd promised himself not to tell lies to _Arthur_, but Gaius could identify one when he heard it all too well.

"What's wrong, Merlin?" he said again.

They pulled up to the Reece Road main gate of Fort Meade. "I need your ID and the car's paperwork," Merlin reminded him.

Once past the gate, Merlin was afraid his grandfather would keep pushing for an answer, keep questioning him, but he didn't. "Take care of yourself today," the old man told him as they parked outside the NSA building. The digital clock on the console read 8:42. He was early, but the building was probably open, though working hours wouldn't start for the majority of the agency until 9:00.

Gaius reached one arm over Merlin's shoulder to embrace him, an unusual gesture despite their blood relationship in this life. Merlin took those moments to cherish the contact. "You too, Gaius," he said, and waved as his grandfather reversed the Prius from the parking space and headed for the main road.

It would take Gaius a little over half an hour to get to Johns Hopkins, Merlin thought idly, ambling casually through the landscaped yard in front of the NSA building, up the path through professionally rounded and trimmed evergreen bushes, twice as tall as him and wider than he was long on the bottom, the foliage – did one call evergreen foliage? Branches, needles, whatever – so thick as to be almost completely opaque.

He came upon a landscaper's cart in the path, and as he side-stepped it he glanced around with polite curiosity for whatever the landscaper might be working on, so early on an October morning.

Merlin's magic was very strong, defensively speaking. But everyone needed some warning, some awareness of _action_ before a _reaction_ could kick in.

Merlin had nothing, not so much as a moving shadow or a breath of wind, a twig snapping or an acorn dropping. All he had was a tiny pinprick on the side of his neck, before his vision tunneled away whitely in the distance, and his legs gave way even as they attempted to keep walking normally forward.

He could feel his body being stuffed into the landscaper's cart. And then the darkness came roaring around him.

**A/N: Thank you to those following, favoriting, and reviewing this, especially those I haven't responded to by PM! I appreciate every word, really I do…**


	8. The Wicked Day

**A/N: In which a whole lot happens and not much is accomplished…**

**Chapter 8: The Wicked Day**

Monday morning, Arthur found it hard to settle to any one task, to concentrate.

"What is it, Arthur?" Leon said, looking over from his computer.

It was hard to put his feeling into words, but, "I should've gone with Merlin," Arthur said.

"It was his deposition, not yours," Leon pointed out mildly. "He spent a week with the man, you were there for half an hour. Of course they're going to want to talk to him first, his deposition will take a lot longer than yours."

"Well, I could've –" Arthur waved one hand, at a loss for words. "I don't know, _been_ there for him."

"You could call him," Gwaine offered from his corner.

"I left a voicemail," Arthur said. "He's not answering his phone. And before you say it, yes I know that's because he's in a deposition!"

Gwaine chuckled, but Leon leaned back in his desk chair, looking thoughtful. "I understand how you feel, Arthur," he said. "I agree with you in fact, but that may not be the best thing for either of you right now."

Arthur felt his brows draw together, though he wasn't angry with his former knight. "Explain," he said.

"He's an adult, Arthur," Leon said. "Not a child to be held by the hand. He worries about you and you worry about him, but joining yourselves at the hip is not a solution."

Arthur sighed, knowing what Leon meant. He knew Merlin's self-sacrificial desire to protect him, he understood it as he felt the same himself. But there was, he admitted, a niggling resentment that too much concern meant Merlin didn't think he was capable of taking care of himself. And if that feeling was mirrored in the sorcerer, Arthur had to let go and trust Merlin.

He _did_ trust Merlin. But the heavy feeling would not leave his heart, that morning.

He ate lunch in the break room, alone and gloomy. Leon and Gwaine, in the absence of any solid leads or evidence to act upon either with Hyden's case or Longley's, had both busied themselves with Camelot projects again. Arthur hadn't seen Merlin since Wednesday, and even a date with Gwen hadn't been enough to completely dispel the black clouds that had gathered during his two-hour Epidemiology course.

His phone rang, and he took the opportunity to toss down the slightly-soggy ham sandwich he'd pulled from the vending machine. "Arthur Drake," he said.

"Arthur," Gibson Chance greeted him.

"Ah – agent," Arthur said, letting his tone cool.

"Yes," Chance said needlessly. "I wanted to apologize again for the unfortunate incident in Bragg – I'm told the young man who was injured is in good condition, and continues to improve."

"That is good to hear," Arthur said, unbending.

"And you'll be interested to know that Agent Frederick has taken a transfer to our Houston office, effective today."

"He's not at Fort Meade anymore?" Arthur asked, relaxing in the metal folding chair at the break-room table. He hadn't considered Frederick's proximity to Merlin this morning to be part of his worry, but the relief he felt at the news that Frederick was now 1400 miles away from his friend was clear enough.

Chance cleared his throat. "I thought you'd see that as good news," he said, his tone ironic. "But now for the bad news. Bragg MPs have continued to be unsuccessful in recapturing Hyden."

Wait. _What_? "Unsuccessful," he repeated numbly. "Recapturing?" Arthur came to life again, snarling into his cell phone, "Chance, what the hell happened?"

"Well, they think he had someone helping him, aiding his escape or even planning it for him," Chance said matter-of-factly. "I mean, he didn't just drop out of the courthouse bathroom window and start running, jumpsuit and cuffs and all."

Hyden had escaped custody. Hell_fire_, as Merlin would say. Arthur leaned on the table in front of him, resting his forehead in his other hand. "Why didn't you let us know before now?" he said.

"What do you mean? I thought you knew?" Chance said. "That is why you kept Marvin from coming to the deposition this morning, isn't it? The threat of a dangerous fugitive at large?"

It felt like a rock the size of Arthur's fist fell down through his chest, landing hard in the pit of his stomach. "Merlin didn't come to your building for the deposition today?" he said carefully.

"He never signed in," Chance said.

_Don't panic_, Arthur told himself. No reason to panic. Maybe Merlin had heard of Hyden's escape since he hadn't spoken to him since Wednesday afternoon, last week. Maybe Merlin already knew not to be careless with his safety, with Hyden who-knew-where… which is why he hadn't come in to Camelot for work this morning, either. "You'll let me know if he shows up there?" Arthur said.

"I will." Chance paused, then added, "The lawyer was only supposed to be here this morning – Marvin won't have a reason to come here this afternoon."

"Yes, you're right," Arthur said. "But if he does –"

"I'll let you know."

Arthur ended the call. He bit at his thumbnail and stared at the phone, then keyed for Merlin's speed-dial. The tone purred in his ear, and Merlin didn't answer. Didn't answer. The automated voice said, _You have reached the voice-mailbox_… He waited impatiently for the end of the message, then snapped, "Answer your damn phone, Merlin! What is the matter with you? Where are you? Call me when you get this!"

He thought of Merlin's laptop on the conference table of their shared office, forgotten over the weekend. _He'll be back_, Gaius had told him one day in June. One day when Merlin's past had returned to haunt them with a vengeance, and the young sorcerer had walked through plate glass and jumped a fence without shoes, to escape. _He'll be back…his computer is here._

So what happened? Evidently things had been fine, at least until quitting-time Friday afternoon. Had something happened on Merlin's date with Freya?

Arthur located Gaius' phone number in his digital address book, but hesitated. Gaius was meant to be at Johns Hopkins today, researching the cause of death for Elyan's friend Adam Longley. He probably wouldn't appreciate an interruption.

"Bet he's not in the tavern, though, is he?" Arthur murmured, and hit _Call_.

"Arthur," Gaius' voice greeted him. "What can I do for you?"

"Are you busy?" Arthur said, remembering his manners, the respect due the old physician, when he wanted to raise his voice and demand, _You can tell me where the hell Merlin is!_

"We've taken a break until one-thirty so everyone can have a bite to eat," Gaius said. "Arthur, what's wrong?"

"Is Merlin with you?" Arthur asked. That was it, he'd driven his grandfather all the way to Baltimore instead of stopping at Fort Meade, and he'd gotten so involved in the science and medicine of the case that –

"No, I left him at the NSA building for his deposition this morning," Gaius said.

Arthur squeezed the phone, shutting his eyes against the inane chatter and chuckling of the Camelot break room at lunchtime. "What time was that?" he said.

"About a quarter to nine," Gaius answered. "Why?"

"Chance said he never signed in," Arthur said. He debated telling the old man that the drill sergeant who'd attacked them had escaped, whereabouts currently unknown, and decided not to worry Gaius. "The deposition was cancelled."

"If that is the case, then it is hardly surprising he did not sign in, is it," Gaius said.

"Wouldn't he have called you to come back for him?"

"Not necessarily, Arthur. Merlin knew I would be busy today with important work. He probably decided to occupy his time there at Fort Meade with other interests." Other interests. Arthur clutched at the concept like a lifeline… but Merlin hadn't called, hadn't answered Arthur's call. "Perhaps he contacted Percival," Gaius suggested. "He may have offered to help on Adam Longley's case? Maybe Kathryn offered to let him pass the day at their apartment?"

"She works," Arthur said.

"That's no reason why Merlin shouldn't be invited to make himself comfortable there, instead of wandering about the installation the whole day," Gaius argued.

"I'll call Percival," Arthur said. "And Gaius? Let me know if you hear from him?"

"Of course, sire," Gaius said immediately. There was a pause in which neither of them took their leave.

"Is he – all right?" Arthur asked. Why wasn't the old man more worried?

"What do you mean?" Gaius avoided answering.

"He's just been – more vague, lately. Like something's on his mind." Arthur could practically _hear_ the old physician's eyebrow quirk, and amended, "Obviously there's been a lot going on. Mordred, then Xander, then – Hyden. But – he's never been afraid to meet an enemy head-on. He's far more likely to give me warnings I don't want to hear, than avoid me altogether." He remembered with a wince that he'd ignored Merlin's warning about Frederick, assuming that Merlin's irritation stemmed from being sent to take the course, not necessarily any serious issues with the junior agent – and that had led to Hyden pulling a pistol on both of them. "Is he angry with me?"

"You? Of course not," Gaius said. "I just wonder sometimes…"

"What?" Arthur said.

"If he's really dealt with his past – I mean his present past," Gaius said. "There was a lot of darkness for him this last decade."

Sometimes it seems like he knows who we expect him to be, and he plays the part for us, Leon had said. "Has he spoken to you about it lately?" Arthur asked.

"No, he hasn't," Gaius answered, sorrow in his tone. "And he won't. He knows I blame myself, you see, so he'll never admit to any struggles he may experience – he'd rather suffer that alone than risk causing me any grief."

There was a pause, then Gaius suggested, "Perhaps you could speak with Freya."

"You think he talks to her about his past?" Arthur said.

"I think she's the most likely person of all," Gaius said. "She offers him unconditional love, she represents the idea of a normal life – and to someone like Merlin, that would be a very attractive notion indeed."

"They've only known each other four months!" Arthur said. It wasn't jealous he felt, but… Merlin had known _him_ for ten _years_.

"Oh, they've known each other longer than that," Gaius said. "Do you recall I once mentioned a girl he'd loved in Camelot?"

"This is _her_?" Arthur said, then remembered that Gwen had wondered the same thing. "You know that for sure?"

"Merlin told me."

"Why hasn't she ever said anything?" Arthur questioned.

"Freya was cursed in her former life – literally cursed," Gaius explained. "It led to her death – Merlin said she did not dream any memories beyond the time of that curse, just the happiness of her childhood. She did not meet any of the rest of us –" Gaius hesitated, then continued, "I'm not certain that she knows those dreams for truth, however, except the strong impression of her love for Merlin."

Strong enough that she'd fallen for him instantly, even without the positive recognition he and Gwen had… which meant that Merlin had met and fallen in love with her after the curse, whatever it was. In spite of the curse. Arthur snorted and shook his head. That was so typically _Merlin_.

"Thanks, Gaius," he said. "I'll find out if Percival has heard anything, then see what Freya might have to say."

"Arthur, one more thing," Gaius said. "An update on the case, if you will."

"On the _case_?" _I'm worried about Merlin, and Gaius wants to_ _talk_ business?

"Merlin is a highly skilled sorcerer, Arthur – I have every confidence in his ability to take care of himself."

Arthur grimaced, though there was no one to see, feeling chastened. _Suppose I should have confidence in his abilities, too_. "What about the case, then?" he said.

"I've isolated an anomaly in Longley's blood-work," Gaius said. "Nothing to do with smallpox – actually, I don't see where he ever received that vaccine – and it may even be completely unrelated to his death, but…" The old man sighed through the phone. "There are certain irregular similarities between Adam Longley's DNA write-up… and Merlin's."

"Excuse me?" Arthur said.

"I haven't done enough research to establish cause and effect, to hypothesize a reason for such a link – _why_ it exists, but it does exist. The blood samples I took from Merlin –"

"You've got his blood-work with you?" Arthur said. "What if the CDC starts asking questions about where that came from?"

"I have _a _sample. I told them it's a project I've been handling for years," Gaius said, a note of dry humor in his voice. "Relax, Arthur, I didn't write _Merlin the Magician_ on the label."

"Marvin Caroban?" Arthur guessed. That wouldn't be any better, really. If there were questions asked, it would come right back to Merlin.

"No, of course not. I've labeled it the Emrys strain."

Emrys. It made Arthur smile, a little. Until he remembered that he had no idea as to the whereabouts of his sorcerer, any more than the authorities knew where Hyden was. He didn't even know if Merlin viewed his own absence as an escape, of sorts. Or if it was accidental. Or when he would return.

He remembered fingering a scrap of brown jacket material dropped on the stack of parchments on his desk. _We have scoured the forest_, Leon said… And then Merlin had stumbled dazed but seemingly whole from the bog to the path. "Let me know if you find out anything else," Arthur said. "About him or his blood."

"Of course, sire."

Arthur ended the call, checked his watch. 1:25. Percival would be on duty. He didn't want to interrupt the Army lieutenant, nor worry anyone else without cause. He composed a text: **Heard from Merlin today? Hes at Ft M 4 depstn.**

He waited, tapping the ring he wore on his left hand on the table, impatiently watching as Camelot employees arrived in the lunch room, departed, chewed and gossiped. His phone chimed in the incoming message, **Nope. Prbly 2 busy. Hope dep goes ok.**

Arthur responded **Thx**, then speed-dialed Merlin's phone. It went straight to voicemail – _You have reached_… The message timer beeped its readiness to record his message, and Arthur growled, "Your leave time is officially canceled for the rest of the year if you can't even tell me _when_ you're taking it!" He took a breath and added, "Call me when you get this, Merlin, I need to know where you are!"

He shove the phone back into his pocket and slung the uneaten remains of his lunch into the trash.

The afternoon passed slowly. Arthur checked his phone, resting just beside his keyboard, every five minutes, it seemed, and snapped at Leon and Gwaine unnecessarily.

"He's eighteen," Gwaine said. "Give him a break."

"Is that supposed to mean, he's old enough to take care of himself, or he's young enough to excuse the irresponsibility of disappearing without telling anyone?" Arthur demanded. "Am I the only one concerned? This is _Merlin_, guys!"

"Yeah." Gwaine was unfazed. "He'll probably come strolling in tomorrow with his big grin and a wild story, and tease you about how much you care, princess."

"He's welcome to it," Arthur muttered, "if he does it this afternoon."

"He'll turn up," Leon said with confidence. "He always does."

Arthur took a deep breath. The knights were right; this had happened before. And Merlin had showed right back up for work as if nothing had happened. _I wasn't gone that long,_ Merlin had once excused himself defensively.*

_ Without my permission_, Arthur had pointed out. Merlin had responded,_ What if I was dying? _

Arthur shot back_, I wouldn't be complaining! But you're not_ – obviously Merlin had been fine, if his first worry was the state of Arthur's bedchamber _– so where've you been?_

It was Merlin's final reaction, given in a tone of surprise and not initially believed, that worried Arthur now. _I _was_ dying_…The problem was, Arthur now knew so much more about his friend, about his sorcerer, that made him sure such disappearances were warranted for dire circumstances.

"Gwaine," Arthur said abruptly. "Could you have the Fairfax County PD do a missing-persons report on him?"

Gwaine and Leon exchanged a look. "They usually require a twenty-four-hour period to go by before a person is considered missing," Gwaine said. "They won't be too happy with me – and we'll feel like idiots, too – if Merlin shows up half an hour after the report is distributed."

Arthur gritted his teeth. "Something is wrong. _Some_thing is wrong," he said.

"I can probably persuade them to issue an exception at the twelve-hour mark," Gwaine said. "About nine pm? Give him a chance to come home, tonight."

It had been close to midnight when Merlin had returned to Gaius' townhouse, in June. _Merlin home…tired, hungry, sore, but staying…won't talk, _Gaius had texted him at the time. It would be easy to forgive the sorcerer for causing Arthur to prematurely jump to a missing-persons conclusion if it was _Assume work as usual_ tomorrow morning for his friend.

He grabbed his phone to text again, sending a message to Gwen. **R u free tonight? Its important.**

She messaged back almost immediately. **Food court Landmark 6.00?**

** Will b there**, he sent back. **Bring Freya.**

** Ok. U bringing Merlin?** He could see Gwen's smile in his mind's eye, girlishly thrilled at the surprise and anticipation of an unexpected double date.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat_. I hope so. I hope so_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He went to the Landmark Mall right from work, having an hour of time to kill before the girls came. He checked his phone. Nothing. Silence. He resisted the urge to call and shout at the sorcerer again. It could be something as stupid as an unchanged battery. In that case, he'd cheerfully strangle Merlin with the charger cord himself.

He strode down the mall's thoroughfare, not really paying much attention to the stores or other shoppers, until he caught himself picking out places he associated with Merlin. Here the Abercrombie store where he'd forced Merlin to change from his rain-drenched clothes. There the railing where his friend had worked beautiful magic, transforming remote-control helicopters into dainty and intelligent winged wonders. There the fountain where he'd met Freya for the first time – _again_, he reminded himself.

Then he shook the thoughts away. He was being an idiot – it wasn't like Merlin was _dead_, after all. Just – being an idiot.

The smell of the food court made him feel sick and miserable, but he stayed, waiting impatiently for Gwen and Freya. He checked his phone again – no new messages. Having nothing else to do, he bought a pizza at five minutes til six, and took it and three empty cups to a table, carrying one of the cups to the soft-drink dispenser in the center of the food court.

"Where's Merlin?" Gwen said from behind him. "Didn't he come?"

Arthur turned, briefly appreciating his fiancée's nice-fitting dark jeans, the emerald-green long-sleeve shirt, the appealingly modest square neckline. He reached one arm around her to hold her close, and she returned the embrace, giving him the comfort he needed without having to question why.

"He didn't want to come?" Freya asked in a quieter voice, disappointment in her brown eyes, her usual sweet smile gone.

"He hasn't answered my calls today," Arthur said, ushering them back to the table.

"Oh, I was afraid this would happen," Freya sighed, sinking down in her chair.

"What do you mean?" Arthur said, straddling the chair across from her, as Gwen perched on a third. She threw him a puzzled glance, knowing him well enough to sense that something was wrong, but that he would not want her to ask for details now. "Something like what?"

"You know about the foster care, right?" Freya said, glancing up at them. "You know about the telekinesis?"

"What?" Gwen said blankly.

"It's why you call him Merlin, isn't it?" she said. "First I thought it was just tricks, like he'd learned to do theater magic."

"Sleight of hand," Arthur said.

"Yes. But he can move things with his mind. Little things, and not so little things – you know about that, right?"

Arthur remembered an out-of-control Chevy hurtling at him through Fast Eddie's parking lot, skidding to a stop six feet away.

"I think he – worries," Freya said, looking from Arthur to Gwen and back again. "I think he worries what could happen to him if the wrong people found out."

_Hyden_, Arthur thought grimly, _and Frederick, and she doesn't know the half of it._

"It makes him – so special." She smiled to herself, dimpling. "But it makes him – take too much responsibility onto himself – I'm sure you've noticed that, too?"

Gwen sighed. "We've noticed," she said. "He thinks he has to take care of everything himself."

"Idiot," Arthur growled, and received two feminine frowns.

"Loveable idiot," Freya corrected. "But it's too much for him to carry. I think – I think he might be in trouble."

"I'm with you there," Arthur mumbled. "What kind of trouble?"

"On Friday night, when we went out…" she hesitated.

Gwen, recognizing her friend's distress, reassured her, "Please tell us. We love him too."

Freya gave Arthur a pleading, don't-be-too-hard-on-him look. "I think he used a fake ID and spiked his drink. I mean, I don't think, I know he did. It smelled pretty strong. And the way he was talking – it was like he was saying goodbye." After a moment, she added, "I was afraid something would happen."

"Like what?" Arthur said.

"I was afraid he'd push me away." Tears glinted in her brown eyes. "Break up with me. Leave to return to Seattle. Start using –" she broke off, looking away.

Arthur couldn't believe this was _Merlin_ they were talking about. _Marvin_, maybe – but there was the rub. His friend was both personalities, wasn't he? _It seems like he knows who we expect him to be, and he plays the part for us._

"Start using – drugs?" Gwen said, in a small horrified voice.

Arthur wanted to protest, _not Merlin_. And yet, before June, before meeting Merlin in the IT department of Camelot Technologies, getting to know him all over again, Arthur would have said _not Merlin_ when discussing smoking or tattoos or shoplifting, or – _suicide_, dammit. Were drugs really so unbelievable? _Morphine_, Merlin had suggested after his tumble down the staircase. _Hopefully_.

Arthur's phone rang, and he answered it mechanically. "_Arthur_," Gaius said. "I called Merlin when I left Johns Hopkins, but had to leave a voicemail. And now I've been waiting here in the NSA parking lot for Merlin for half an hour. They told me he hasn't been inside the building all day. Have you heard anything?"

"Not a damn thing." Arthur exhaled. "If he was going to meet you, he'd have done it. You should just go on home, Gaius. I'll ask Percival what the Fort Meade MPs can do, and Gwaine – well, I'll talk to Gwaine too." He didn't want to say, _file a missing-persons report _where Gwen and Freya would hear. The call disconnected, and it felt his last hope was disconnected also.

He leaned forward wearily until his forehead rested on the tabletop. He felt Gwen's hand on his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "What happened, Arthur?" Gwen said. There was fear in her voice, but it was under quiet control.

"Gaius drove him to Fort Meade this morning," Arthur said, his voice echoing oddly from the surface of the table. "And – no one knows where he went, after that. No one knows where he is, now."

Their little silence was all the more ghastly in the middle of the color and sound and cheer of the mall food court.

_But you know me… I'll come back when you want me to_… he thought of the song on the radio when they'd left the horror of Caisson Hill behind, left Fort Bragg.

He kissed Gwen on the cheek and excused himself, promising to pass on any news he received.

His phone rang again as he reached to unlock the Mustang, and he scrambled to retrieve the phone, looking at the screen for _Merlin_ – but the caller ID simply said MN call. He folded himself into the driver's seat before answering. Who did he know in Minnesota, he wondered?

"Arthur Drake?" He heard a young-sounding male voice say. "This is Casey Lindell – I knew your friend Marvin at the shooting course in Fort Bragg? We met briefly right before – uh, Buell was shot."

"Yes, I remember," Arthur said. Why was Casey calling him?

"Well, Marvin gave me this number in case I ever called and couldn't get a hold of him – and he didn't answer my call earlier, so I thought –"

"It's fine," Arthur said. "What can I do for you?"

"Just tell him that I talked to Buell this morning and he's feeling much better. He said to tell Marvin wasn't he glad the clowns arrived on time."

_Clowns_? Arthur wasn't sure he heard correctly, and for sure wasn't in the mood to have time for jokes. "Clowns, okay."

"Oh, he'll get it. He was whistling that tune, _Send in the Clowns_, all week, like the whole lot of us were… never mind. Tell him, uh – be careful. We were told that Hyden escaped from police custody. He really had it in for Marvin. I'm not saying he'd _try_ anything, but, you know, tell him to be careful."

"Yeah." Arthur cleared a husky feeling from his throat. "When I see him, I'll tell him to be careful." Was that what had happened? Had Hyden somehow managed to get past gate security onto Fort Meade? It was his lawyer Merlin was meant to meet, after all.

"And – tell him I'm sorry." Casey's voice held obvious embarrassment. "Again."

"I will. Casey – sorry for what?" What else had happened that week?

"Um. How well do you know Marvin?"

That was a very good question. It always had been, it seemed. "He's one of my best friend. My partner, really," he admitted.

"Partner? I thought you were his boss?"

"It's complicated." And _that_ was an understatement.

"Well, you see, I'm doing coursework for an associate's degree in criminal psychology –"

"And?" Arthur wasn't impatient. He was merely eager for useful information.

"Well, he was helping me study one day, the chapter on schizophrenia, and – it really bothered him. I thought maybe someone was having a go at him, making us roommates, or maybe it was just a really nasty coincidence. Anyway, let him know I'm sorry, and hope he's doing okay."

_You and me both_. "Thanks, Casey," Arthur said.

He drove to Gaius' townhouse, instead of going home to Thomas Drake's mansion, and waited on the steps for over an hour before the silver Prius turned into the lot. He stood and peered into the passenger side, but it was empty.

"Is he here?" Gaius asked, the minute he exited from the driver's seat. _Kind of pointless question_, Arthur thought sourly, _if Merlin was here, I wouldn't be sitting outside_. But he understood the desperation that made the old man ask.

"No, unless he's refusing to answer the door – it's locked," Arthur said. He stood and turned to follow Gaius inside, going to check the backyard as he listened to the old man call Merlin's name, check his room – and even his closet, from the sound of closing doors. Minutes passed before Gaius descended again, the old physician's hope seeming to deflate right before his eyes.

Three times now Arthur had been an overnight houseguest at Old Town Commons. He made himself comfortable on the couch with the television remote, while Gaius sat to work at the computer behind him. He checked Merlin's number again – voicemail - then texted Percival**: Do what u can to c if merlin is still on ft meade. Top priority.**

The hands of his watch crept slowly around the face, 8:30, 8:45. He called Merlin's number and swore viciously at the disembodied voicemail message. He took a deep breath. "Gaius," he said. "Was Merlin ever treated for schizophrenia?"

The computer keyboard went silent. "Merlin was treated for several things," Gaius said, using his neutral physician's voice. "His therapy sessions focused on issues of paranoia, delusions, and hallucinations rather heavily. It was believed that Merlin's subconscious mind had not dealt adequately with the loss of his nuclear family."

"But you and I know, those dreams were real," Arthur said softly, still facing away from the old man, his eyes on the tv screen. "He _is_ Merlin, I _am_ Arthur, and he _can_ do magic. He _knows_ now those dreams were true."

Gaius took a deep breath, and let it out. "He knows it with his heart, Arthur, I'm as certain of that as I can be. But the nature of mental illness is such that the patient themselves can be unaware of symptoms, can believe themselves cured until they stop taking necessary medication. They do believe hallucinations, delusions, paranoid fantasies are true. And Merlin knows that as well. His head may doubt his heart, do you see. I believe that is what happened to Merlin, when he chose to suppress the memories and dreams and magic for the sake of a sanity that could be accepted by those around him."

"You mean, the med and the therapy make him second-guess himself?" Arthur said. "Even now?"

The chair creaked as Gaius rocked back. "Perhaps especially now. He does not want to disappoint you. He may not tell you everything he knows or suspects if he doesn't have proof –"

"I don't need proof from him," Arthur protested.

"Proof that satisfies himself," Gaius finished.

"Would he go off on his own to investigate something?" Arthur said. "Not for this long, right? I mean, he used to disappear… but we have phones now, dammit! Even if his cell battery is dead, he could use a pay phone, or… hell, he could walk up to a cop on the street and say _help me I'm lost_!" He leaped up from the couch. Gaius didn't say anything.

Five to nine. Arthur's phone vibrated in his hand – Percival**. No report to MPs, no one remembers him walking thru any xit gate. Drove area of NSA bldg last .5 hour. Nothing. Will keep looking.**

Five to nine. Arthur keyed for Gwaine's number, and the former knight answered immediately. "Is he there yet?"

"No, he's not here!" Arthur snapped. "His phone goes right to voicemail and no one has heard from him. Percival's searching Fort Meade, good luck to him, and I need you to file that damn report with Fairfax, and make sure it includes D.C., Baltimore, and Maryland, Anne Arundel, and Howard Counties."

"Yes, sire," Gwaine said. "Leon's been making phone calls for the past hour, so I can tell you he's not been arrested or checked into any hospitals or urgent-care clinics."

Arthur didn't know if it was good news or bad news. He took a deep breath. "Thank you, Gwaine."

He sank back to his seat on the couch, burying his head in his hands. What the hell had happened? He could conclude one of two things – either Merlin had chosen to stay away, or he'd been kept away by force.

Bottom line, Merlin wasn't home where he belonged.

**A/N: Now, please don't reach through my computer to choke me…for those of you who were hoping to find out what happened to Merlin, sorry… stay tuned… *diabolical grin* **

**For those of you who love worried!Arthur, here you go! **

***Conversation from Season 3 ep.2, Tears of Uther Pendragon(2).**


	9. A Cup of Poison

**Chapter 9: A Cup of Poison**

"Those two pints are worthless, contaminated with the fentanyl."

"Can't you purify it somehow? I don't think you realize just how precious that boy's blood is."

"You've reminded me quite clearly just how valuable it is to you. It will take time, effort, and significant funds to remove the impurities introduced by the incapacitant, none of which we have. The blood loss will act as an adequate sedative. We will be able to draw pure blood soon enough. Patience, Doctor."

He couldn't see. Couldn't move. It wasn't dark, not at all, it was – painfully bright. He tried to speak, and couldn't.

He began to panic. Something was wrong. Something had happened. That freight train that was coming, that had blasted the warning from Hyden's pistol - Wait. Had he been hit by that train? Maybe. Maybe that's why he was paralyzed. That's why there was no pain, only… the sense that he was so terribly, lamentably, dangerously slow.

_Arthur_. Always his first thought, his first question. _Where is he? Is he all right?_

He couldn't move. He couldn't see. He couldn't speak. But that didn't mean he was helpless.

He reached down, deep down, where his magic immersed his soul and cradled his body, and drew on his reserves for healing magic, though it was next-to-useless to perform on himself.

The brightness blinked. Dark to light. Then again. He heard again, a quiet beeping that made him want to turn his head, locate the origin of the sound, assure himself it was an audible fact, and not some random glitch in his brain.

"Doctor, he's fighting the tranquilizer. He's trying to regain consciousness."

"That's impossible."

Pause. He struggled harder. It was like knowing he was dreaming, trying to pull his eyelids open and wake.

"Maybe, but that's what he's doing."

Blink. Blink. Light, then dark, then flickerflickerflicker.

"Isn't it fascinating? He's not even aware he's doing that! What an incredible specimen!"

The beeping sound increased in intensity, frequency. Locked inside himself, his pulse raced and he began to pant. _No_! he screamed, beating on the brightness as he had once battered against the walls of a cave, keeping him from his Arthur, keeping the magic crystallized and remote.

"Draw off another half-pint. That'll keep him quiet until we get the hippocampal electrodes attached and functional."

The bright place glowed, and he lifted, floating in midair, in deepest space. There was nothing to see but light, but somehow it all swirled around him, sucking him back down – or up, maybe? it was all one, in this place – into oblivion.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

That same damn beeping intruded into the fogginess of his mind. He struggled against it, wanting silence, but no matter where he turned, it was relentless. It was… familiar. He quieted, listening to one quick light tone for each of his heartbeats. That was pleasant. That was…safe.

His eyelids dragged open, but his eyes took about five years to focus. But that was okay, because there was no hurry. No rush. At all. In the world. That was because there was no pain.

There was, however, a very plain, worried-looking woman sitting in a chair next to his bed – which seemed to have been lifted up by at least a foot. And how many pillows did they cram behind him to keep him in a near-upright position as he slept? How many… did…who was cramming pillows in his bed?

The woman was pale, her hair lank and of a color that matched the freckles all over her skin. He stared, fascinated. She had freckles on her neck, on her hands, on her – _earlobe_. She didn't smile at him, she looked positively – frightened, to see him awake. She leaped to her feet, calling, "Doctor?"

Oh, doctor. Right. He'd been in the hands of medical professionals before. Doctors were, along with policemen and firemen, people to be trusted. That's something everyone was taught as a child. He was perfectly safe.

"Good morning, Marvin." Another woman had appeared, a very tall woman that bent over him, her jowly face not really matching the hard calculation in her eyes. Her hair was brown without any gray, but pulled severely to the back of her head. "Marvin, can you hear me?"

He tried to nod, tried to open his mouth – his very _dry_ mouth, he realized, he was thirsty, why was he here? What was the question?

"I think you can hear me, Marvin, can't you?" the doctor said. "You're perfectly safe. We're going to take great care of you, but you need to stay relaxed and let us help you. All right? The more you fight us, the longer it will take to get you better."

That worried him. Why did that worry him? Because they thought he would fight them. Why would he fight them?

_ Am I talking to myself? No, not if I'm not talking at all, right? Right?_

_ What she said right there, did you notice that? It sounds like what they used to say to me, when they thought I was crazy, that there was no way I was Merlin, of all people, and –_

"Arthur."

The doctor turned back to him, her eyes glittering in the bright lights. "Marvin," she said, as though greeting an old friend. "How are you feeling?"

"Where's Arthur?" His lips and tongue felt so slow, like his face and mouth were wrapped in cotton. Now, that would look funny. He should ask for a mirror, maybe…

"You can have visitors after awhile," the doctor said comfortingly. "But you have to help us help you. Regain your strength, before you're ready to have visitors."

Visitors. Hospital. Arthur. "What happened?" he managed to say, clearly enough. At least it sounded clear to him.

"He shouldn't be able to talk yet!"

The doctor's face didn't move. It had not been her voice to hiss in his ear…but he couldn't turn his head to see who it was.

"There was an accident, Marvin," the doctor said, in the way doctors have of telling a lie in such general terms it's not really a lie. "You were hurt. You've lost a lot of blood. You're very weak."

Weak. Yes. He felt weak. He raised his head from the soft surface it was propped on, weak as a newborn kitten. And oh! so dizzy.

He wanted to rub his eyes. Yes, that sounded – felt – um, sounded like it felt… no, sounded like it would feel good. To cram his knuckles into his eye-sockets and rub until the world made sense again.

But he felt a tug at his wrist, at both wrists, accompanied by a soft metallic rasp. His eyes travelled down, down to where his mind said his hands – his wrists – should be. Brown padded handcuffs, several inches wide, tethered each hand to a bedrail, with only a few inches of slack. Restraints.

Wait – restraints? He tried again to move, and again the chain merely slid along the bedrail.

The doctor placed a cool hand on his. "Don't be alarmed, Marvin," she said reassuringly. "It's for your own safety."

He blurted, "What the hell?" but to his ears it sounded like a mangled version of "well" with a few extra vowels. He concentrated, and said more deliberately, "What happened?"

The doctor sighed, glanced at someone or something over his head – that held no interest for him at all – and said, "I didn't want to have to tell you this, Marvin, but I guess you deserve to know. You're had something of a – mental relapse. You cut yourself again. Tried to kill yourself. We were forced to put those on, to keep you from hurting yourself."

He laughed. Chuckled, giggled, wheezed. No, it was impossible. He didn't, he hadn't, he wouldn't.

The doctor's surprise was quickly smothered by an expression of compassion. "Marvin, do you recognize this?" The doctor reached into the side pocket of her white coat, pulled out a small silver object. He focused, and recognition came at last.

"It's m'knife," he slurred, now himself surprised.

"It was found beside your body," she said. "You used it to cut your wrists, open your veins, so you would bleed to death."

"Why?" he said, aghast. _Why would I do that? Why would I do that to Gaius? To Freya, to Arthur?_

Her smile was sad, and she slipped the knife back into her pocket. "I hope we have a chance to talk about that," she said. "For now, just rest. Sleep, and get some strength back."

His head was heavy. And his heart was in turmoil. He'd been betrayed. Somehow, he'd betrayed himself. _I'm sorry, Arthur_, he mourned. _I'm sorry_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He woke later, a week, a day, an hour? to the freckled nurse lifting the straw of a plastic mug to his lips. He sucked on the cool water gratefully, swallow after swallow until he was out of breath.

"Thanks," he rasped, and the nurse looked as stunned as if he'd called her a foul name.

"I'll – tell the doctor you're awake," she murmured, and disappeared around the head of the bed.

The light was still painfully bright. He blinked, and checked his surroundings. Hospital bed, check. Rolling stainless steel cart, check. Monitor screen with jaggedly swimming green lines – check. He watched until he felt dizzy and nauseated, then blinked and licked his lips and looked away.

Padded cuffs, check. Plain green-blue cotton blanket, check. Tile floor…scuffed and cracked, with small bits missing, though it looked clean enough. Cabinets on the far wall, labels too small to read. It was a very large room to have all to himself.

The doctor moved into his line of vision, checking his monitor. "Awake again, Marvin?" she asked. "Are you comfortable? Hungry? Thirsty? We can get you some broth, or jello."

"How am I supposed to eat it?" he asked, his voice sounding and feeling rusty. He lifted his hands just enough to feel the tug of the manacles.

"Yes, well, I'm sorry about that," she said, smiling to put him at his ease, clutching her clipboard to her chest. "Rules are rules, I'm afraid. But maybe – if you behave yourself very nicely, and convince us all that you are not a threat to yourself…hm?"

"But I'm not," he objected.

"Marvin." She leaned closer, gave him a conspiratorial wink. "I've seen your scars." She touched the inside of her left wrist to demonstrate her meaning. "You've tried it before, haven't you? I'm sorry. You'll just have to endure those a while longer."

He looked down at the padded cuffs. He felt a confusion there, somehow, something that was not quite right… He tugged, and felt no pain.

"It will take time," the doctor was saying, "for your body to replace the blood you lost. For now, you'll have to be content to eat and drink and rest."

"Transfusion," he said, feeling as though his mouth was full of marbles. That was an odd word, and hard to say. And what did it have to do with him, again? "Transfusion?" he tried again, and it was easier the second time.

"Not in your case," she said briskly. "Can't risk polluting the fountain of life, now, can we? Now, unless you have any more questions, I'm going to send Grace in with something for you to swallow that's a little thicker than water."

"Thank you," he whispered, and she turned her head with a puzzled look, as if she hadn't heard him correctly.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"How long until we can start to harvest the white blood cells?"

"He's strong enough right now to take another pint, but I recommend waiting until tomorrow, or the next day if we can. Then possibly he could survive if we take more."

"Can we afford to wait that long? The boy is a weapon…"

"He's been very quiet. Cooperative. Once we start to stimulate the hippocampus we can further manipulate the situation to our advantage."

"Why not just drain the blood from him and be done with it? No loose ends…"

"I don't recommend it. He has friends who have friends who might be able to make things much more complicated for us. Far better to take what we need and then… release him back into the wild, so to speak."

"And you can guarantee the result of the hippocampal manipulation?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure of it. There have been many studies on the use of the procedure to combat drug addiction, some argument for fine-tuning it for therapy purposes…"

It was night. He knew that because the light, the bright light had been turned off. The beeping of his monitor continued, a familiar companion, a white noise generator to sleep by. It was very quiet. It was very quiet. There was something wrong with that, he felt. There should have been more noise…but he was thankful it was quiet. Quiet was…more restful. He should rest. He'd been told so. He wanted to rest, so he could…have his hands free to eat his own food. Yes, that was it. But that was not all, was it? Rest and food meant he'd get stronger…and that meant he'd get to have visitors.

Gaius, and Freya, and Gwen. Maybe Percival would bring Kathryn, that would be nice.

And – Arthur.

He hesitated, in his thoughts. Arthur would be upset with him for what he'd done. He'd be angry, maybe. Disappointed. Maybe Arthur wouldn't come at all, maybe he'd be so disgusted, he would…

Maybe he didn't want Arthur to come. Because that was the worst thing ever, wasn't it, to see in Arthur's eyes that he'd let him down.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He glared at the blue-green blanket covering him from shoulders to feet. He _felt_ stronger. He _should_ be able to move his legs. He felt the impulses in his nerves, felt his muscles tense and relax, but no movement was discernible. He glared, and wondered if it was worthwhile getting chilly in the open air to move the blanket with magic.

Of course. The chain on his manacle rattled as his hand twitched in an involuntary attempt to smack his forehead with his palm. He could _replace_ the blanket using magic, too.

Only…what if the doctor or the nurse saw him?

Somewhere behind him, a door closed, and Grace the freckled nurse came around the edge of the bed with a tray. Juice, milk, water, broth. He sighed. It was a trial on the stomach and the taste buds to be an invalid.

"Morning, Grace," he whispered. "Is it morning?"

"It's morning," she muttered, darting him a frightened glance.

"You work a lot of hours, don't you?" he said. His throat felt perpetually dry and raspy, but it didn't stop him from trying to make a little friendly conversation. He imagined nursing was often a dreary and thankless task.

"What makes you say that?" Grace asked, positioning the straw for his use, and avoiding his eyes.

"It's either that," he slurped the tiny cup of apple juice with five swallows, "or I'm sleeping right through anyone else's shift."

She cleared her throat, and he noticed her hands were trembling. "It's probably both," she murmured.

The doctor breezed into the room, clipboard clutched to her chest, brown hair pulled back into a bun as always. "Thank you, Grace, that will be all," she said cheerfully. "I see you've gotten quite a bit of strength back, Marvin. Maybe we'll be ready for some visitors later, hm?"

Putting the clipboard down across his shins, she shifted the blanket away from his left arm, and rolled the stainless steel tray to a location more convenient to her hand. She pushed the sleeve of his hospital shirt up to his shoulder and tied the rubber ribbon around his upper arm, pinching his skin. Unwrapping an alcohol swab, she cleaned the inside of his elbow, and handed him a purple foam ball with a smiley face on one side.

"Just squeeze that a few time for me, nice and slow and steady," she instructed.

He did so, turning the ball until the smiley face looked back at him. "What's this for?" he asked, still feeling that mind and tongue communicated at half-speed. She'd already said he wasn't getting a transfusion – and didn't they do that right away, if it was necessary?

"It's an IV line," the doctor said brightly.

"My IV is on my right arm," he reminded her.

"Yes. Sometimes we have to move it, you see, if you've had it in for too long in one place. Sometimes your veins can collapse, and then your IV solution and whatever medication we want to give you can't get into your body."

He looked up at the IV bag, still half-full. Dripping. Odd. There was something wrong with that, too, he should be able to think –

He glanced over and saw the doctor attaching a sharp metal object to the end of the plastic tube, but it wasn't a needle. It looked more like a metal straw that had been snipped at an angle, creating a very sharp point that would – _that's not meant to_ –

"Hell!" he exclaimed, as she laid the sharp point on his skin and slid the entire end of the straw into a vein. His whole body shuddered at the feeling of the metal entering his flesh.

"Please hold still," she instructed him, and he lay still beneath her ministrations, offering no struggle or argument. The six inches or so of tubing he could see was coated with red, and warm where it touched him, unlike the cool temperature of the IV solution.

"Is it – supposed to look like that?" he said, fascinated and repulsed.

"Sometimes platelets can migrate through the needle and show inside the tubing," the doctor said. He looked at her jowly face and wondered what her name was, and whether she ever wrote anything on her clipboard.

She reached across him to slide the closing clip over the dripping IV tube. Then she looked at him, not at his eyes, but rather as if she noticed fuzz caught in his hair, or wanted for some reason to memorize the shape of his skull. "Now, are you going to behave for your visitors?" she said, giving him an obvious – if playful – warning. "Or should I administer a nice bedtime drug?"

"Visitors, please," he said, feeling very much like a child who had just promised to behave in return for a treat.

"Yes, I thought you'd say that." She seemed pleased. "Grace, please move the screen forward." The doctor stepped around the head of the bed. He looked for Grace, but didn't see her. The doctor said from behind him, inexplicably, "Doctor, are you ready?"

And then, every single sense sparked with input. His ears rang, his eyes were flooded with mustard-yellow flashes, his fingertips registered the cotton blanket as rough as steel wool. He smelled something burning, and a metallic taste twisted in his mouth, way back at the hinge of his jaw.

He blinked, and there was Gaius. Laughing as at one of his jokes, in a lighthearted moment. He wondered vaguely why the old man had worn his red dressing-robe. And why he'd carried in his favorite mug of coffee. And why they'd let him bring the Scottie into the hospital.

"Gaius?" he gasped.

"It is me," Gaius answered. "Your grandfather. How do you feel? Are you well?"

"Oh, Gaius, I'm so sorry," he said, yearning toward the old man, but only able to lift his head. His back remained connected to the bed. Was he still so weak, then, unable to sit forward properly? "They said I cut myself – I don't remember doing it – please, you've got to believe me, I didn't mean to!"

"Relax, Marvin," Gaius said. "Trust your doctors, they will help you."

_Marvin_? A cold shudder passed through him. "Are you very angry then, Gaius?" he whispered.

"I'm very – disappointed," Gaius said. "But angry – no, we care about you, Marvin, we worry about you. I won't stay long, just remember to listen to the doctors, and be sure to obey them. They only want what's best for you."

"Yes, I will," he whispered. Hot tears started to his eyes. "Is anyone else here? Did anyone else come to see me?"

"Ah, let's see – yes, the Spiers are here, Peter and Kathryn."

Again that sense-spiking jolt. He cringed as though expecting a shock, then opened his eyes, surprised that he felt no pain.

Percival and Kathryn sat together in front of him, both of them looking off to his left, watching one of the doctors or a nurse, maybe. Percival wore his ACUs, and Kathryn was dressed in dark jeans and a full-necked black sweater.

She had lost that glow of new life. He gasped and tried to straighten. "Kathryn, what happened?" he said, his heart aching. A miscarriage, maybe? How could she look so happy, and Percival so oblivious, after a tragedy like that?

"Uh – you tell me," Kathryn said. "They told us you tried to kill yourself, Marvin."

Oh, her too. They were very angry, then, not to use his "real" nickname. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"You'll be better soon," Percival said, in his deep voice, still looking off to the side instead of at him. "Work with the doctors, Marvin, promise to do all you can to get well."

They didn't mean it. Something was a lie. If they were angry enough to call him Marvin, why would they tell him they worried and cared? "Is Arthur here?" he asked. If his soul was to be flayed open, it was Arthur who deserved to do it. Get it over with quickly. Because this killing-him-with-kindness was killing him.

"Arthur –" Percival hesitated, "Drake. Yes. Just a moment."

_Zap_. He must have bitten his tongue. He tasted blood, and heard stars, and smelled the blanket.

"Marvin." Arthur must have come right from work. There he was in white collared shirt and a red tie, that tiny gold glint in the center his rising-sun tiepin, sleeves rolled to his elbows and his hands on his hips. The way he'd seen Arthur stand to address Leon and Gwaine and him in the office of Camelot Securities, looking so much the king he had been.

"You're very angry," he whispered. It hurt to try to hold Arthur's frank gaze, but it was unthinkable to him to look away. "Arthur, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, I don't know what happened –"

"I understand." Arthur's expression didn't change, and there was something missing from his voice. "We all make mistakes. But I want you to know, we miss you and want you to get better so you can come home. Will you do that for me?"

"Anything for you, Arthur, you know that," he said, frowning.

"Good, then. And you'll be back to normal in no time, Marvin, back to work –"

"Will you quit calling me that?" he burst out. "I know you're disappointed with me, but – you _never_ call me Marvin."

There was a long silence. Arthur stared back at him blankly. "I sometimes call you Merlin, don't I?" he said. The former king began to laugh like he'd just told the finest of jokes. "I call you Merlin, really? Ah – yes, of course I call you Merlin, because it's a perfect nickname."

His heart thudded, and his palms felt damp where he rubbed them on the blanket over his legs. "You call me Merlin because that's my name," he said. "That's who I am."

"And I'm King Arthur, I suppose," Arthur said, still amused. "Yes, it fits quite well. And these other guys, our team, they're the knights of the Round Table, are they?"

"You know that very well." He was beginning to be angry. Angry was better than scared. "You _remember_."

"I – _remember_?" Arthur's voice cooled. "Do I really play along with your delusional fantasies? I shouldn't do that, should I? That won't help you get better."

"Arthur," he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Do me a favor? Come right over here by the bed and slap me across the face."

"Why would I do that?" Arthur said. "You're my friend and I want to take care of you."

"Come here, then," he said, choking down the lump in his throat, ignoring the hot trail of tears leaking from his eyes. "Hit me as hard as you can, because sure as hell that won't hurt as much as what you're saying to me right now. Don't do this. I _am_ Merlin and you _are_ King Arthur, and –"

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur said. He sounded quite cold by now. "Doctor, are we nearly finished? This is a ridiculous conversation."

He turned his head as the tall doctor came to the side of the bed, bent to check the bag of fluid hanging there halfway to the floor.

And he understood. Enough, at least. There were no wounds on his wrists, no cuts. The cracked tile of the floor would be replaced in an instant in a reputable care facility – which meant this wasn't one.

He might be confused about his own identity – Merlin, Marvin, Emrys, nobody – but he _knew_ who Arthur was. The Once and Future King. His friend, his brother, his partner. Everything in him, his magic, his mind, his soul, was meant to serve Arthur. No way in hell would he ever deny his king. No way in hell would he trade loyalty for someone else's definition of sanity. That had been tried before…

That had been tried before. He remembered Gaius speaking to him, describing the effects of a certain kind of root ensorcelled with just the right enchantments…

As the doctor straightened beside him, he asked her quite clearly, "Are you a priestess of the Old Religion?"

She looked at him uncertainly, searched his face, then said, "Excuse me?"

"I believe you heard me," he said. "Are you a priestess of the Old Religion? You've got a mandrake root hanging under my bed, haven't you?"

The doctor looked over his head. "He's gone," she said. "Broken. I must say, it happened sooner than I thought. We didn't even have to use the girlfriend."

"It won't work," he told her, even as a wave of dizzying exhaustion swept over him. "I know my Arthur." He felt triumphant and clever and – he glanced down and in the blink of an eye the blanket was snatched away in a billow of blue-green, and the other restraints were exposed.

Tan leather bands crossed his chest, his hips, his thighs just above his knees. Two more padded manacles encircled his ankles, keeping his legs immobile at each bottom corner of the bed.

It was hard to concentrate when he was so weak and lightheaded. White spots vied with black spots to obscure his vision, but his magic fought, and he felt the restraints give slowly, one strap sliding over another, out of the buckle.

"Do you see this?" the doctor asked from beside him. She wasn't touching him, wasn't trying to stop him. She sounded fascinated. "Even now he's still fighting! Magnificent! Think what a little of his blood will do in the right people!"

"Don't let him escape."

"No, of course not. He can't get anywhere like this." The straps were tightened peremptorily, buckles refastened. "We've got about as much as we're going to get for a while, unless you've changed your mind about bleeding him dry."

He collapsed, panting. The light blazed brighter and brighter, burning his eyes, warming his skin and blood til he was slick with sweat and couldn't catch his breath.

"We will still run the test sequence, of course."

"Of course. Longley was surely an exception."

"We should never have allowed him to leave observational custody – that was our mistake."

"We can't risk that again. We should go ahead with phase two and the public performance."

"What about this one? It's a pity we can't reprogram him. The origin of the Emrys strain – so powerful, so controlled. I'm afraid the others simply won't match his potential."

"I have an idea for this one. He can still be useful. We can test the antidote on him. And his mental condition suggests just the right scenario. Jolt him one more time."

The bright light became a palpable sensation, electric fire running all through his nerves, sparking hotly at each ending, fusing joints in a hellish forge. He probably screamed.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was dark again, and quiet. He waited, listening. Listening. His body was so sore, so stiff, his head split with the agonizing pounding of each heartbeat. His blood, pumping through arteries, veins, capillaries…that was where the treachery resided.

He had to get out. Had to get to Arthur. Had to warn Arthur.

He raised his hand tentatively, and it wavered free of the blanket. He tested the other one. The cuffs no longer restrained him. He dragged the blanket back from his body and stared for a minute, disoriented, thinking he'd hallucinated the motion. There was his body, still covered in blue-green material.

He sat forward, trying to brush the blanket aside again, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. The blanket was behind him, sliding to the floor. He was dressed in hospital scrubs, as though he was the nurse. He checked his arms. No tape, no tubes, no needles.

Across the black room, a door banged open, startling him badly. Arthur was at his side in a moment, dressed all in black, carrying an assault rifle on a supporting strap over one shoulder. He stared at the golden-haired king, hardly noticing the others crowding into the room. How could he be sure?

Arthur said, "What is the matter with you? Your leave time is officially canceled for the rest of the year if you can't even tell me _when_ you're taking it!"

He sighed. _That_ was his Arthur. "You came for me," he said.

"Of course I came for you," Arthur said, "Merlin."

He smiled from sheer relief.

"Are you all right? Can you walk?" one of the others said, and he looked at each in turn. Leon, Gwaine, Percival.

"You all came for me," he said in wonderment.  
Each knight smiled an identical smile. "We need to go," Arthur said. "Can you walk?"

He tried to stand but could hardly push himself up off the bed. Percival and Leon moved to each side, lifting his arms over their shoulders. "They've been taking my blood," he explained. Each man nodded, Leon and Percival dragging him forward, following Arthur as Gwaine dropped to the rear.

His feet slithered along the tile floor. Down the hall, ill-lit, shadows darting wildly. Behind them, Gwaine fired a burst of rapid shots, and his body jerked in reaction. He tried to look over his shoulder, but Leon and Percival only tightened their hold and trundled him along at a faster rate.

"Get a move on!" Gwaine yelled. "They're coming up fast! We're outnumbered!"

More gunfire. Beside him, Leon twitched and spun away, pulling the other two down. Percival grunted and began hobbling, their progress severely crippled. They collapsed in a heap on the ground.

"Here, in here!" Arthur hissed, holding a door open. They all managed to drag each other inside, and Gwaine crouched with his back to the door.

"We're never gonna make it!" Gwaine told Arthur.

"Are you two all right?" Arthur asked Leon and Percival, who were tying strips of bandage around their injured limbs, Leon's upper arm and Percival's thigh. There didn't seem to be much blood.

"We can make it, Arthur," Leon said. "But what about – Merlin?" They all looked at him, feeble and frail on the floor.

"Leave me," he said. "Please leave me."

Arthur knelt beside him. "We can't leave you, Merlin," he said sympathetically. "You know what they're doing with you?"

"They're taking my blood," he said. "To be used as a weapon."

"That's right – a biological weapon," Arthur clarified. "You've got a disease. Your blood is toxic to the rest of us. We can't leave you alive in their hands."

"Then kill me," he said. "Now, here."

Arthur pulled a knife from his boot, a black thing with silver along the double edge. He flipped it and offered the hilt to him.

"Will you do it, please?" he said. "If I'm to die, by the hand of a friend, I want it to be you."

Arthur nodded, parted the overlapping v-collar of the scrub shirt, and placed the tip of the knife against his skin, just over his heart.

He nodded at his king, wrapping his fingers around Arthur's on the hilt. The steel entered his flesh, sliding downward. He shuddered, his body trying to fight back, the impulse for self-defense hard for him to subdue. Still the blade traveled downward, inward… touched his heart. It was hard to breathe, now – his gasping would surely alert their enemies to their location. His pulse rammed through his body, echoed in his head, and the hilt came to rest on his skin.

He raised his head just a little, to see the vast sticky pool of blood spill over the sides of the dark-red scrubs, seep across the cracked tile floor.

Arthur stood. "It had to be done," he said. He sounded so far away.

Arthur would be safe. He would be happy – he had Gwen. His friends would be safe – safe from him. No regrets.

"Thank you," he whispered.

And that was it. And that was all.

**A/N: How about that strangling now? Although I have to argue the two-day update rate as grounds for my stay of execution… :D And the length of this chapter, longest I've written to date…**


	10. A Valiant Effort

**Chapter 10: A Valiant Effort**

Arthur woke to a jingle and a light thudding down the stairs in Gaius' townhouse. He scrambled up as the white Scottie bounded into view, flashed across the rug, and leaped to a seat on the couch beside Arthur.

For one brief hopeful moment, Arthur's eyes remained on the last step visible, expecting his friend to stumble into view with his plaid pajama pants and a yawn. He looked at the Scottie, the little white brush of a tail whisking back and forth over the tan upholstery of the couch. The dog put his head forward to touch his nose to Arthur's sleeve, bent to lick Arthur's hand, then gazed back at him with expectant black eyes.

Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat and went to open the sliding glass door to let the pet out to the yard. He returned to the living room to pick up his phone from the coffee table, where it had been all night only an arm's reach away. He would have heard a call or a text, but he checked anyway. Nothing new. He stood a moment in quiet indecision, then went to the stairs and climbed to the second floor. The bathroom door was open, the room dark.

The door to Merlin's room was open also. He stood in the doorway. The blue-striped comforter was crooked on the bed. Several articles of clothing were scattered on the floor, a pencil cup overturned on the desk. The closet door was open, revealing more disarrangement of Merlin's wardrobe. All was silent and still.

Arthur took a deep breath and closed his eyes. _Come back, Merlin_, he said in the privacy of his own mind. Then he padded downstairs to the kitchen to tend the coffee-maker and start a pot brewing.

"Merlin!" Gaius' voice exclaimed, so full of hope and relief that Arthur skidded sideway, expecting to see the teenage sorcerer come down the hall. He stared back into the old physician's face, realizing what Gaius had thought, hearing Arthur in the kitchen. "Oh – Arthur," Gaius said, collapsing into a chair by the table. "I thought –"

"I know," Arthur said. He busied himself toasting bread and frying eggs for both of them, though neither had the heart to do more than pick at their meal while it cooled.

"You've heard nothing, then," Gaius said finally.

Arthur rubbed both sore and stinging eyes with thumb and fingers, pinched the bridge of his nose. "What time did you finally go to bed?" he asked the old man. He'd fallen into a light and troubled sleep still listening to the sounds of the old physician at work at the computer desk.

"It was well after midnight," Gaius said distantly.

"What bothers me," Arthur said, "is not knowing whether he left on his own, or –"

Gaius nodded slowly. "I was furthering my research on the Longley sample, last night," he said. "I have reached the conclusion that – somewhere and somehow – he was injected with a derivative component of the Emrys strain."

Arthur dropped his hand to stare at the old man. "You mean, the similarities between his sample and Merlin's – was because he had Merlin's blood _inside_ him?"

"Yes."

Arthur frowned. "How does that even happen?" he exclaimed. "You think Merlin was a blood donor at some point, and Longley just ended up–"

"No," Gaius said decisively. "You've seen the way Merlin is with needles, I think it unlikely he ever donated blood without my knowledge. And there was no record that Longley was ever in a position to need a transfusion."

"Then how?" Arthur's mind flashed back, _you've seen how Merlin is with needles_, to Gaius drawing blood samples, to his own question regarding the break-in at the laboratory. "All that smashed glass, all those samples spilled and splashed and mixed – you think someone was disguising the theft of Merlin's blood samples?"

Gaius sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. "When we cleaned up that mess, we made no effort to ascertain that each and every vial was accounted for," he stated.

"But – why?" Arthur pushed back his chair and stood to pace. "I mean, that's kind of an incredible theory – even though I believe you, I can't imagine how an instructor at Annapolis would end up with Merlin's blood? Why would someone randomly break into a lab, steal blood samples, then inject it into someone else?"

"I don't believe it was random at all," Gaius said softly. "You're forgetting, Arthur, how unique Merlin is."

"I don't forget that for a minute!" Arthur protested. "Or, well, rather – not for very many minutes at a time."

"Do you remember, back in June, the publicity that the incident at Camelot Technologies received?" the old physician said.

"Not that much," Arthur responded. "The bombs were recovered, no one was killed, the media forgot about it in three days' time."

"Can't you think of one person, perhaps, who might have had cause for continued interest?" Gaius said. He hadn't moved from the table, hadn't lifted his eyes from the green paisley placemat, still spoke very quietly.

"Especially after Mordred was caught a week later," Arthur remembered. "Xander."

"I think it entirely possible that Xander set himself to learn as much as he could about the young men who had the temerity to thwart his plans, and Merlin in particular," Gaius said. "If he employed another computer expert –"

"Another hacker, you mean," Arthur said grimly, "yes – if he lost a vital associate to arrest and imprisonment, he'd want to replace them."

"It wouldn't be hard to assume, therefore, that Xander could have accessed the results of the initial tests I did on Merlin," Gaius said, "then arranged for the samples themselves to be stolen. Perhaps he has been conducting his own research since then, and Longley an unfortunate test subject at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Oh, hell," Arthur muttered, collapsing into his seat at the table once again. "If Xander is Andrew Spell, his specialty is disease and vaccine and biological terrorist attacks!"

"Indeed," Gaius said. "One more thing, Arthur. Though the CDC declined to commit themselves to the conclusion as yet, I am as sure as I can be, that the introduction of the Emrys strain into the body of Adam Longley is ultimately what killed him. Though the official cause of death will probably be published as extreme physical stress and prolonged exposure to the elements."

"What do you mean, the Emrys strain killed him?" Arthur said. "Like – AIDs or Ebola or something? Like Merlin's blood is toxic?"

"Perhaps," Gaius allowed reluctantly. "Elyan himself has pointed out, the friend he knew would not have simply walked out to the river to lie down and perish."

Arthur shuddered. Was that what Merlin had done? Simply started walking – _gone missing –_ with no word to friends or family, as Longley had done? "What does this have to do with Merlin's disappearance?" he said. Was he taken, or had he left?

"I don't know, sire," Gaius said heavily. "I don't know. But I am afraid for him."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur texted Gwen from the parking lot of Camelot Technologies, **No news**. She responded, **I'll tell Freya**.

Leon and Gwaine were both in the office when Arthur arrived, though neither was sitting. Leon gazed out the window, hands in his pockets, lost in thought, while Gwaine paced tigerishly, biting his thumbnail. Both turned instantly as Arthur came into the room, and disappointment flooded the knights' faces.

"He's got to be _somewhere_!" Gwaine said explosively.

Arthur's phone rang, and he fumbled it from his pocket. "Percival," he told the other two, and hit the button to answer the call.

"Is he there?" Percival asked immediately, and Arthur let out the breath he'd been holding, both Leon and Gwaine reacting similarly in response to his body language.

"I'm putting you on speaker," he told Percival, then laid his phone on the circular table and seated himself. Leon did also, but Gwaine kept pacing. "I haven't heard from him," Arthur continued. "Gwaine had the Fairfax County PD do a missing-persons on him last night." He raised his eyebrows for confirmation, and Gwaine nodded impatiently, wheeling to stride back toward the window.

"The FBI will probably get involved sometime today, then," Percival said. "Since he was last seen on Fort Meade, that's federal property."

Arthur sighed. "Good and bad news," he mumbled.

"What do you mean, sire?" Leon said.

"We don't know yet whether he was abducted, or whether he just – left," Arthur said.

Gwaine turned on them. "This is Merlin," he spat. "He wouldn't _just leave_."

"Arthur, do you know something we don't know?" Leon asked.

_What if he left to protect us?_ Arthur explained to them as clearly as he could what Gaius had discovered in the comparison of the blood samples of Merlin and Adam Longley, the implications of a biological weapon based on Merlin's blood.

Percival's deep, careful voice said from the phone on the table. "I drove the whole post last night and didn't see him, and it's unusual for a person to walk out a gate. The perimeter of the post is barbed-wire fence, and there's a long clear line of sight both approaching and leaving through the gates. Those guards don't do much besides check IDs. A pedestrian would be both interesting and memorable."

"So he's still somewhere on Fort Meade," Gwaine suggested.

"Not necessarily." Percival hesitated. Arthur chose not to point out that if Merlin wanted to leave without being seen, he would. He could go right through a barbed-wire fence, too, probably. He sat back to listen to the counsel of his knights before he formulated a plan. The big knight continued on the phone, "They don't check anyone leaving in a vehicle.

Gwaine said, "What about Hyden? Aren't we considering the threat he might pose, also?"

"The full-vehicle inspections are random," Leon said. "It's possible that he could have hidden and gotten onto post."

"His lawyer?" Gwaine said.

Leon shook his head. "It's possible, I suppose, but a lawyer would know better than to participate in the commission of a crime, to aid and abet a fugitive client."

"I don't know," Arthur said slowly. "Hyden said he was ordered to _find out for sure_. About Merlin's magic. Having done that, what reason does he have to come after Merlin once he's escaped? That doesn't make sense to me." Unless it had something to do with the mysterious _others_ up Hyden's chain of command.

"Then you think it makes sense Merlin would turn his back on us and leave without saying a word?" Gwaine exclaimed.

Arthur didn't respond. If the sorcerer had found out his blood carried a communicable disease…

"Merlin's magic," Percival said slowly. "Arthur, about Longley – yesterday I went to look at his place. They said they thought he was packing, right? But there were no boxes…"

"Did you find anything else?" Arthur said, leaning his elbows on the table.

"Lots of stuff tossed around," Percival said. "All the light bulbs removed – and every single plug removed from the outlets. Even the refrigerator. Arthur – what does that remind you of?"

"It reminds me of Gaius' townhouse, the day that Merlin remembered," Arthur said.

"What if," Percival said slowly, "what if – something – in Merlin's blood, made Adam Longley begin to do magic?"

"Oh, hell," Gwaine said abruptly. "Can you imagine? Some random naval instructor suddenly making lights flicker and radio stations change and toasters explode?"

"What would you do?" Leon said reasonably.

"Unplug everything, take out the light bulbs," Arthur said. "It might be enough to send someone on a long walk toward death from exposure, I suppose." That meant the component of Merlin's blood, the Emrys strain, didn't kill _outright_. Maybe it was Longley's reaction that had led to his death.

"Why wouldn't he tell someone?" Leon said. "His family? A doctor?"

"Its not something anyone really talks about," Percival said, "but it's not generally acceptable in the military to admit to a mental problem. He'd have thought he was going crazy."

Going crazy. His head might doubt his heart. _Schizophrenia_, Casey had said. "With the FBI involved, questions will be asked," Arthur said.

"We know what to say," Leon reassured him. "And what not to say."

"If he's on his own," Arthur said, "all we can do is hope he comes back, or that something turns up for the FBI or police department. In the meantime, I suggest we concentrate on Hyden and Andrew Spell – background, contacts, whereabouts, anything." _Something_, what the hell.

"I'll go to the NSA, see if I can get anything from their security cameras," Percival volunteered.

"See if you can find anything out about this supposed smallpox vaccine," Arthur said. "Gaius said his blood work didn't show that, so maybe he was told one thing, and injected with something else. If we can find out where, or who, it might be a good lead." Percival agreed, and ended the call.

"I'll take Dr. Spell," Leon said. "Gwaine, you have Hyden?" Gwaine nodded grimly.

If Merlin left as a reaction to learning of the Emrys strain, how had he found out? And what was the best key these days to what Merlin was thinking? Arthur remembered last week's Round Table meeting, Merlin's inexplicable frustration with his now-abandoned laptop. Arthur reached out and pulled it to him as the other knights turned to their own research, opened it.

At the password prompt, he tried _Merlin_. He tried _Emrys_. He tried _Hunith_, _Ealdor_, and _Kilgarrah_, without result. He tried _Round Table_. He wondered for a brief moment what Merlin's older brother's name had been. He stood, pocketing his phone and picking up Merlin's laptop. "I'm going upstairs for a while," he said.

No one had to say, let me know when you hear anything.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur paused a moment at the door to the corner office of the IT department on the second floor of Camelot Technologies. Carol was alone, busy at her computer, and the sight of Merlin's empty intern's desk behind her made Arthur clear his throat.

"Arthur Drake," Carol said without looking up. "Don't see much of you now that you've taken my intern for your own. How's Merlin, anyway?"

Arthur opened his mouth and told the absolute honest, brutal truth. "I don't know. He's gone."

She looked up at him in initial surprise, then reconsidered her reaction. "You know how they say, he's a keeper?" she mused. "Well, Merlin – he's more of a drifter."

"I'm going to get him back," Arthur told her. "I have a favor to ask." Her eyes fell to the laptop in his arm. "I need to look at some of Merlin's work – files, links, messages, and so on."

She beckoned him over, spinning her chair to face the side of the smaller intern's desk. He laid it in front of her, seating himself opposite. She lifted the computer open, glanced at him. "Don't suppose you know his password?" she said, tucking a lock of her short dark hair behind her ear. He gave her a rueful smile and a shrug.

She reached behind to her own desk to untangle a cord and plugged her system into a port in the side of Merlin's laptop, spinning once again to type commands on her computer. "Normally, I'd say I don't have a snowball's chance in hell at getting into a computer Merlin didn't want me in," Carol remarked dryly. "But this is his personal computer, and he wouldn't have protected it against requests from Camelot's network."

"So you can get past the password?" Arthur asked, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Give it a minute," Carol said, not without humor. "This is Merlin we're talking about, after all." She watched her screen as the clock ticked on the wall. Five minutes, then ten, before she swiveled her chair to face the laptop, pen and post-it notes in hand. "Here we are." She scribbled on the top sheet, then handed him the sticky note. "Here's the password," she said.

Arthur studied the script; it made no sense to him. _A18208U18._

Carol paused. Her lips moved and her eyes narrowed, and she appeared to be counting on her fingers. "Why does he have your name as his password?" she said, glancing at the familiar battered laptop case.

"My name?" Arthur said.

"A – 18 – 20 – 8 – U – 18," she said. "Numerical equivalent of the consonants." Arthur shook his head bemusedly. "Anything specific I'm looking for?" she asked.

"He was working on something last Wednesday morning," Arthur said. "Also, anything to do with Xander or Emrys." She raised one eyebrow, and he spelled the two names for her.

"Okay, you're the boss," Carol murmured. "Or at least, the boss' son." Her fingers flew across the keys almost as fast as Merlin's own could have done. "Lots of searches on Xander," she told him. "It would take a couple of hours to slog through that. Here's something, a word document."

Arthur craned his neck to read _i'm sorry i'm sorry i failed you i'm sorry its my fault i am nothing but i swear revenge on my foe he will die he will die i will obliterate him someday but xander_

"Leave it for now," Arthur decided, his blood running cold at the sight of the threat Merlin had kept to himself. "What about the term Emrys?"

"Nothing," she said. "No files, no searches, no messages."

So Merlin had not heard of the result of his blood mixing with Longley's. No noble metaphorical falling-on-his-own-sword, then. He had hoped, almost, that Merlin had decided, in his own right mind – even for the wrong reasons – to walk away. Now he was back to the question of whether Merlin had suffered a blow to his sanity, or whether he'd suffered a more physical blow.

Carol worked a moment in silence, then chuckled. "Did one of you guys do this?" she said. "Pretty ingenious prank."

"Do what?" Arthur said.

She turned the laptop so they could both see the screen, tapped a sequence of keys. Immediately the screen flashed black with a small message in red. **hello merlin**

"What the hell?" Arthur said blankly.

"There's more." She typed one-handed, and the screen changed. **i look forward to meeting you**

"Where did that come from?" he said.

She typed again, and the third blank screen flashed an evil-looking crimson word. **soon**

"Did someone hack into his laptop?" Arthur demanded. He remembered Casey's suggestion that someone was trying to "get to" Merlin, and wondered exactly how difficult it would be to send Merlin back to the moody, uncooperative Marvin who had denied himself so adamantly.

"No, it didn't originate from an outside source," Carol said. "It's a Trojan horse message – someone programmed this directly onto his hard drive. It has a timed trigger. If he tried to trace a hack, there would be nothing to find." She looked at him for a moment, then ventured, "If nobody in your department did it…well, who else had access to his computer?"

Oh, hell. Oh, _damn_. He'd had to remind Merlin to claim his electronics from the lockbox in the Caisson Hill barracks at Bragg. Where it had been out of Merlin's possession for a week. And Hyden right there the whole time. _Care to share?_ Arthur had questioned Merlin's inexplicable outbreak, just before the sorcerer had dashed from the room looking like he was going to be ill. Merlin hadn't mentioned the messages – Gaius had said he might keep information to himself, if he hadn't satisfactory proof. And after Casey's revelation about his psychology course and Merlin's reaction… Arthur wondered if Merlin believed he was hallucinating. Someone was clearly trying to intimidate the sorcerer, or…something.

Arthur's phone chimed the alert for an incoming text. It was from Gwaine**: Feds r here. Ur dads po'd. ** He sighed and rolled his eyes, then tucked the laptop under his arm. "Thanks," he said to Carol.

"Sure," she said, spinning back to her own work.

The federal agents took over Camelot Securities, questioning Gwaine, Leon, and Arthur separately. It took, to Arthur's growing impatience and resentment, the rest of the afternoon. And by the time they'd folded their note-tablets shut and politely departed, Arthur was pretty well "po'd" himself.

"Got the feeling they're not looking very hard," Gwaine growled. "All their questions on Merlin's background, teen years, asking about his state of mind – _substance abuse_…"

"They think he disappeared voluntarily, don't they," Leon said.

Arthur didn't answer. That was the question he'd been asking himself for the last thirty hours. Why, then, did it antagonize him for someone else to voice those doubts? _They don't know Merlin_, he stated to himself. _But you do, _himself answered back,_ and _you're_ not sure_. "Merlin's computer was tampered with in Fort Bragg," Arthur said. "He was personally threatened by Mordred during that taped interrogation, too."

"He didn't tell us that," Leon said.

"Are we pretty sure he was abducted, then," Gwaine said.

"We need to find out what, if anything, Frederick and Hyden's little recon-cum-sabotage tricks have to do with Xander, Dr. Spell, and Longley," Arthur said. "Why did they take him, but more importantly –"

"Where he is now," Leon finished.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

By Wednesday afternoon, Arthur's head was pounding, his stomach swirling in nauseated circles. The FBI had declined to pursue an active investigation into the disappearance of Marvin Caroban, based on the facts of his juvenile records – court and medical – and the testimony of those who knew him. "Bastards," Gwaine growled.

The office phone rang at 5:30, and Arthur answered it without interest. "Arthur, it's Mary," said a sympathetic female voice. By now the whole building knew of Merlin's disappearance – the missing-persons report and the visit from the FBI grist for the rumor mill. "Your father wants a quick word."

"Thank you," Arthur told her automatically, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth.

"Arthur!" Thomas Drake's voice carried through the internal phone line with forced heartiness. "Your car is still in the parking lot – I expected you'd have left for Baltimore by now."

"I'm not going this weekend," Arthur said. He glanced over his shoulder to see both Leon and Gwaine watching him.

There was an ominous silence on the phone. "You're skipping class?" His father's voice was stern, disapproving.

"Merlin is still missing," Arthur said. "I won't leave until he's been found."

"Arthur!" Thomas Drake said explosively, then sighed. "I appreciate your loyalty to your employees – I've taught you well. But I cannot allow you to put your life, your education, your future on hold for someone as unreliable and dissolute as that boy."

"Let me guess," Arthur said ironically, "his life isn't _worthless_, it's just _worth less_ than mine?"

"Exactly," his father agreed. "I'm sorry to have to put it so bluntly, but, Arthur, he is probably lying in an alley somewhere with a needle in his arm."

"All the more reason for me to stay and find him, sooner rather than later!" Arthur snapped, feeling his worry like an electric shock through his chest at his father's words.

"When I gave you the authority and funding for your department," Thomas Drake said dispassionately, "you agreed to take master's courses. I graciously allowed you to enroll in the University of Baltimore instead of Brown, despite the significant drop in the prestige of that degree. Now, do I need to reconsider my generosity?"

Leon waved a hand for Arthur's attention. Gwaine held up a sheet of printer paper, where he'd scrawled, _Go to class. We'll hold down the fort, let you know everything going on._

Arthur gritted his teeth. "No, father, that won't be necessary," he said. "I'm just leaving now."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The drive was hellish. Gray and windy and cold, with no sign of the bald eagle he'd marveled at with his friend.

Wednesday night Arthur had a nightmare, that Merlin, whistling softly between his teeth, was overtaken by a tornado outside the NSA building and flung far beyond their reach. The young sorcerer tramped through a strange dream-land, ankle-deep in blood, chanting, _I hear he is a whiz of a wiz, if ever a wiz there was_…

Arthur was physically present in each of his classes, but took no notes, read no chapters, wrote no assignments. He sat on the cloudy steps of the classroom building across from the library, thinking of Merlin's blood soaking into the material of Arthur's white gym shirt.

In the basement apartment, Arthur left the television on at all times, all night long and all day while he was in class, unable to stand the silence.

And when the knock on his door sounded, at 11:15 Friday night, he yanked it open, heart in his throat, adrenalin fueling the pounding of his pulse in his ears. His eagerness dipped at the sight of Gwaine, dressed all in black, but spiked again as soon as he took in the former knight's expression. There was only one thing that made Gwaine grin in just that devilish manner – the prospect of a fight.

"We got a tip on the hotline," Gwaine said. "Get dressed." He shut the door behind him as Arthur peeled off his white long-sleeve t-shirt and dug through the foot locker for one of a darker shade. "Baltimore PD radioed down to Fairfax –" he checked his watch – "ninety minutes ago. An unknown female informant called the tip-line, claiming that someone named Marvin – tall, thin, black hair, blue eyes – was being held captive in the basement of a clinic in downtown Baltimore."

Arthur hit the lights, locked the door behind him, and followed Gwaine at a fast jog to Percival's red Silverado, idling at the curb, Leon holding the passenger-side suicide door open for the dark-haired knight. Arthur slid into the front passenger seat, and Percival shifted into drive before the doors had slammed shut.

"What do we know about this clinic?" Arthur said.

"They use it on weekends," Leon said, "to provide free care for low-income families."

"Front and rear entrances," Percival said. "One story at ground level, basement reached by one flight of stairs, no windows. Reception area in front, storage in the rear, one horseshoe-shaped hallway, two treatment rooms in the center, two on each wing. Basement has four large rooms at each corner, one hallway straight down."

"We've got body armor and semi-automatics in the back," Gwaine added from behind Arthur. "I used our authority with the NSA and my connections with Fairfax PD to convince Baltimore to let us check it out."

Arthur nodded, completely agreeing with him. "No telling what inexplicable things might happen," he said, trying to lighten the mood, "around Merlin." No one said anything. Arthur tried to imagine under what circumstances someone would be _able_ to hold Merlin captive, and shuddered.

Seven minutes later, Percival turned down a narrow alley, rolling past garbage dumpsters with the headlights off, and parked ten yards back from the street. Wordlessly, the four men exited the vehicle and began to prepare. Arthur walked to the end of the alley and stood surveying the clinic, hands on his hips, heart beating in anticipation, mouth dry. Streetlights glowed a sickly orange. No other lights were visible in or around the clinic. No movement. No vehicles, unless there was parking in the rear. Leon brought Arthur his Kevlar and pistol. Arthur zipped the vest and clipped the holster to his belt, snapping it down around his thigh.

"Percival, what sort of security system does the building have?" Arthur said.

"Main power line on the side there," Percival said. "Two deadbolts on each door."

"Do not fire first," Arthur instructed. "Leon and I will go in the front, Gwaine and Percival in the rear, after cutting the power line. Silence is key – we make too much noise, and Merlin becomes a hostage as well as a captive." The knights nodded. "Move out," Arthur said.

They crossed the orange-lit street, and Percival and Gwaine disappeared down one side. Arthur watched the street as Leon manipulated the deadbolts, and ducked inside when Leon tapped his elbow. Lobby – tile floor, reception desk, waiting area with chairs and magazines. They passed through silently, stopping briefly inside the swinging door as they faced the horseshoe hallway. Arthur signaled Leon to the left, and began to check the exam rooms along the right-hand hallway. No one. Empty. Dark and silent. He glanced around the corner, caught sight of Leon doing the same, as Gwaine took one last look out the rear and Percival put his hand on the door marked with a red-and-white graphic sign for the stairs.

Arthur paused one moment. There was no sound, no _feel_ of anyone moving anywhere in the building. Gwaine turned back to them, nodding the all-clear. Arthur motioned them forward with a two-finger beckon, and Percival yanked the door open, the knights waiting to allow Arthur to proceed at the point position.

They leaped down the stairs, taking two or three at a time, their boots nearly silent, and halted at the bottom. No reaction. The building was dark. They were positioned to see straight down the hallway, a room at each corner, but no light showed around any doorways. And still, the eerie, uncanny silence.

Arthur snapped his fingers, and Percival and Leon snapped flashlights on, attaching them to the top of their pistol-barrels. With Arthur still in the lead, they moved cautiously to check the first two rooms on each side. There were boxes stacked for storage, a collection of carts, chairs, other medical equipment, covered in a layer of dust. No one.

Arthur returned to the hallway, glanced at Gwaine and Percival to see each shake their head in the negative. Nothing in the opposite room either. They proceeded down the hall, the floor tiles cracked, a few ceiling tiles broken or missing. At the end of the hall, two doors to the last two rooms. Still, silence but for the shuffle of their boots, an occasional soft squeak of a rubber sole on the floor.

Hand on the doorknob, Arthur watched for Gwaine's nod of readiness, and they slammed simultaneously into the darkness beyond, Leon's flashlight beam darting around the room. Empty. They could hear Gwaine cursing in the room across the hall, and it was a frustrated, disappointed litany of foul words.

"Clear," Leon said.

"Clear," Percival returned, in a tone just as heavy.

Arthur squeezed the grip of the handgun at his hip. He wouldn't admit to the desire to shoot someone – or some_thing_, maybe. Losing control was no way for a leader to behave. He envied Gwaine his rant.

No captive warlock. Just an abandoned hospital bed, vital statistic monitor and IV pole beside it. A chair, an empty table on the far wall, cabinets – and a projector screen. _Damn it to hell_, Arthur thought wearily, the adrenalin draining.

"You think the tip was a hoax?" Percival said.

"Why would it be?" Gwaine snarled, though they knew his anger was not for them. "It included his physical description and this address. Why would someone call an anonymous hotline and _lie_?"

"The call was made at 9:45," Percival said.

"You think he really was here?" Leon said. "At least until then?"

Arthur crossed to the bed, placing his hand over but not on the unbuckled restraints. This room was _clean_. "Yeah," he said softly. "I think he was here." He felt sick to his stomach. _Was_.

"So where the hell is he now?" Gwaine demanded, unreasonably. "You think they moved him because someone found out?"

"It's a weekend clinic," Arthur said wearily. "He went missing Monday. This is the last day this place would be deserted." 9:45 - an hour and a half, when he'd been seven minutes away. He didn't ask why Gwaine hadn't simply called to tell him the address – of course they'd never let him investigate the clinic on his own.

_I'm sorry_, Arthur thought, closing his eyes against a hot pricking feeling. _I'm sorry, Merlin_.


	11. Famine and Drought

**A/N: Okay, not a very long chapter, but after the last two, I thought you all deserved this on a quick update…to earn my reprieve…**

**Chapter 11: Famine and Drought**

A scream woke him, rising and falling, increasing in volume and intensity until the sound pressed painfully in on his eardrums. He covered his head with his arms. Red and blue lights flashed, the brightness agonizing on already sensitive eyes.

He heard himself whimper, felt the surfaces below and behind him as hard and cold and damp.  
The screaming slowly faded into the distance, taking the disorienting strobe effect of the light with it. He uncoiled stiffly, and opened his eyes.

The world was a swirl of dirty orange and blue-black. He found it hard to distinguish between up and down – though that wouldn't matter unless he was falling, he supposed.

He put out his arms, hoping that touch could help to make sense of his perceptions, and his whole body groaned in protest. He stilled his muscles. At least, he wasn't aware of sending any further intentional signals for his body to move, though everything seemed to be rocking around him anyway. It wasn't a threatening motion, but it did leave him dizzy in a stomach-churning way.

There was a light, far in the distance. He wondered if that was the light he was meant to follow – _go into the light_, he thought, but didn't move to rise.

His fingers searched his sternum, up and down and side to side, but found no wound. _Is that the way of it, when you die? You cross to the other side in a body restored?_ Then why was he so cold and still and sick?

Because this was hell, probably. He thought he'd read somewhere that suicides were automatically damned. He held out his left arm toward the light – yes, there were three scars. Old scars. He pushed his fingers inside the cloth of his shirt – _they have clothes in the afterlife?_ – but the skin and flesh over his heart was unbroken.

Maybe that was because he hadn't lived long enough for it to scar.

He shivered violently. It wasn't fair. If he'd been damned to hell shouldn't he at least be warm? Shouldn't his particular form of torture include fire?

So if his wrists were clean, and he hadn't gone to hell, what had happened?

He blinked up at the light. It seemed to call, to beckon. Purgatory, then? _Do you go to purgatory even if you don't believe in it?_ Wherever he was, it sure felt a lot more like _in-between_ than one place or another.

Sparks flew around the light, like moths on a summer night, like sidhe fairies dancing over the surface of a lake. He tried to concentrate, to slow time to see them, and couldn't.

Someone said, very clearly, _hallucination_. Oh, yes, voices.

_Merlin_, called a great gravelly voice. Insistently, yet patiently. _Emrys_, a smaller voice cried, a scared young voice.

_I'm sorry, they're not here right now, may I take a message?_ he answered, politely and properly as he'd been taught.

No reply. Another voice, full of self-assurance and earnest helpfulness, said, _It's natural to miss your family, but you need to accept the truth if you want your mind to heal, if you want to get better._

He responded, _Every day, in every way, I'm getting better and better_. Why did that make him want to chase a Frenchman in a trench coat and yell _Clouseau_?

_They're coming to take me away_, he thought. _They already have, and they soon will… to the funny farm, with trees and flowers and chirping birds_ – he could smell the roses, hear the robins – wasn't it too cold for robins? – _to the happy home, where life is beautiful all the time and I'll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats –_

He turned his head to the side and vomited saliva and bile.

_I've lost it_, he recognized. Gone round the bend. _But I didn't see the bend_! he pleaded, argued.

_He's gone – broken_. Useless. That made him want to weep – there was something, some purpose, some_one_ he desperately wanted to be useful for. Or to. Or – with?

Then it seemed to make sense to move away from the new puddle on the hard damp surface. He managed to squirm a short distance before exhaustion overtook him. His head hurt, where it lay on a hard surface. Or maybe the hard surface laid on him. _Hard to tell. Get it?_

Maybe he'd been hit in the head. It seemed to him that he might have enjoyed a quiet, cool, dark night otherwise. That was it. He'd been mugged. Hit over the head so hard his brains were scrambled. With cheese and parsley. But there was some reason why the thought of _him_ being mugged was laughable. Why? What made him different from everyone else who'd ever been mugged? _Oh, I dunno_.

That light was sparking again. Sparkling with sparks – sparkly – sparkles. Another idea occurred to him, and he tried to impose his will on them, through them, form them into an image of something – someone – a being old and scaly and cranky, but powerful and wise. He could use some advice right now. He could use someone to talk to.

"You hidin' from the cops?"

He scrambled instinctively into a sitting position, a few rapids blinks sufficient to focus on the face not so far from him, the whiteness of the eyes and teeth enough to orient his perceptions until his brain could fill in the tentative details of the face, the body – the child sitting on the concrete stairs, in the dead dark of late night or early morning, watching him. Huddled in a heap on a sidewalk, in a corner formed where one brick wall met another. It was cold, and wet, and _foul_.

"What?" he said thickly.

"You hidin' from the cops?" the boy repeated patiently, as though this were a reasonable explanation, an everyday occurrence. "You a junkie, right? You just got a beatin' from your dealer, right, 'cause you owe 'im money? An' now you're hidin' from the cops."

His mind was working very slowly, half or even quarter-speed. He considered each sentence the child had uttered separately. Cops. No, he'd have no reason to avoid them. None he knew of. Though he had no impulse to seek them out, either. He would neither avoid nor seek contact, he decided.

Next, he was a junkie. He looked down at himself. He was wearing blue-green medical scrubs, worn and dingy rather than starchy-clean, his bare arms orange with cold and the glow of the streetlights. There were tiny vein-cuts in the bends of his elbows, and dark bruises around them. Did that make him a junkie? He didn't know. Didn't remember. It didn't feel true that he would trust anyone who dealt in illegal substances enough to introduce such things to his body.

Hell, he didn't even drink that much at a time, because of the risks of losing control. The risk that he would – what? He wasn't sure. Maybe he was a mean drunk. Drunk would explain –

He looked up from his arms, wrapping them around his chest and fastening his gaze to the child's face once again. "What happened?" he said. "How did I get here?" But, where was here? Wasn't that more important? Or _who am_ –

"White van drove up, n'hour ago," the child said. "Down the block there –" he pointed.

Dizzily, he tried to follow the intent of the small forefinger, but the orange light spun and obscured the rest of the black, rather than revealing anything.

"Side door opened, some-oddy booted you out," the boy said. "Van drove off again. You kind of crawled a ways, and then you kind of took a nap, maybe. Until a minute ago, when the cops came past."

"You've been sitting out here for an hour?" he asked.

"So?"

"So it's night – and it's cold – and you're, like, five years old." He blinked, willing the edges of his vision to stop spinning like a kaleidoscope.

"I'm eight," the boy said defensively. "My mom's at work, an' my brother went out, an' I cou'n't sleep. Are you hungry?"

He thought about it. Thought about his middle, then inside of his middle, and the pinch of hunger resolved from the general ache and soreness. "Yeah," he said, surprised.

"Okay, be right back." The boy loomed briefly as he jumped up.

He jerked back so fast he banged his head on the brick. "Ow," he muttered as the boy pounded up the concrete stairs and slammed through a door.

Another siren screamed, somewhere in the near distance, over the intruding thrum of late-night traffic. He put out his arms, fingers and palms scraping over rough brick – and he could _taste_ the dust – and pushed himself up to balance precariously on weak and wobbling legs. Below the cuffs of the scrubs, there was a pair of battered sneakers on his feet, without – he plucked at his pant-legs – without socks.

He fumbled for any pockets in the garments. All empty. No such luck as a wallet, to check for his name. Or address. Not even a half-empty packet of cigarettes or a lighter. But if he'd been mugged… or he owed his dealer money…

He stumbled forward two steps, then sank down on the concrete stairway. It was cold, but his skin was damp. Clammy. He wanted to be warmer on the outside, cooler on the inside, like… like sitting in a hot tub with an icy rum-and-Coke.

"Peanut butter," someone said. No, that didn't go with a hot tub and a drink. Maybe a dark-haired girl with a deep-red bikini and… he smelled pizza. "Peanut butter," someone said.

He opened his eyes as the child laid a sandwich in his outstretched hand. "Hope you're not a lergict," the boy said, biting into a second sandwich.

His hand remembered how to lift food to his mouth, and his stomach woke – but felt unsure whether to protest or cheer. The peanut butter stuck in his mouth. He felt like – what's that guy's name, in the one movie – the creepy agents in the interrogation room made his mouth fuse shut and disappear.

He shifted the sandwich in his hand so his fingers would be free to touch his lips. Yep, still there. That was a relief.

"Here," the boy said around a mouthful of peanut butter and bread, handing him a bottle.

He held it up. In the streetlight the long-eared brown rabbit sported a blue "N" medallion around his neck and brandished a red-and-white-striped straw. He shuddered.

The boy reached over to twist the cap off, breaking the seal. " 'S just choc'late milk," he said.

He sipped, he swallowed, he chugged til he choked.

"Slow down, man," the child criticized. "My brother'll be pissed if you puke on our stairs."

He set the plastic bottle down beside him, and the sandwich on his knee. His neck hurt, all the way up his skull. He didn't want to add another bout of vomiting to his ill-feeling. "Thank you," he managed breathlessly.

"Hey, you have nice manners for a junkie," the boy said. "Nobody says _thank you_ in this neighborhood. My brother says –" He broke off, squinting suspiciously. "You don't know my brother, do you?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

"Well, I wish I didn't," the boy said, suddenly bitter and vicious. "I hate 'im."

"You shouldn't," he responded, frowning, finishing his sandwich slowly. "You're lucky to have a brother. I had a brother, once." He studied the boy next to him, peering through the haze of orange sparkles that clouded his vision. "He's about your age – my older brother." No, that didn't make sense – this boy was smaller and younger than he was. When had that happened? He remembered wishing he could be bigger and taller and older than his brother, but wishes never come true.

"What happened to your brother?" the boy said.

"He's gone now."

"He left you? Like my brother left me?"

"I – guess." He tried to remember. Yes, his brother was definitely gone, that must mean he'd left. "But just because brothers sometimes have to leave, doesn't mean they don't love you anymore."

"What was his name?" the boy asked, then crammed the last of his sandwich into his mouth and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Will. William, like my father."

The boy snorted. "I don't got no father. My brother says you gotta have friends, they're like brothers – you got any friends?"

He didn't answer. He didn't remember. Yes, at least one. Everyone needed at least one friend, didn't they? Everyone deserved at least one?

"Maybe not, huh?" the boy said sympathetically. "Friends don't let friends get chucked outta vans, I think."

"Wasn't their fault," he said immediately, defensively. He licked his fingers, though they tasted like engine grease, and swallowed the last of the chocolate milk.

"You feel better?" the boy said. "You going home now?"

"Probably should, don't you think?" he said. "I should go home, and you should go to bed?"

The boy said, "Where d'ya live?"

"Washington," he said. Washington? Yes, that was right. He pointed, sure of the direction of home.

"D.C.'s south of here." The boy pointed at right angles to the indicated direction. "it's kind of a long way, if you're gonna try an' walk."

"No, Seattle," he said. "Seattle, Washington. That way." The direction still felt right. "Home is that way." He felt more sure of that statement than anything else that had fluttered through his mind or past his lips that night.

"Washington _state_?" the boy said. "That's even _more_ a long way. It'll take you, like, two years to get there, walking."

"Oh, I don't think it's that far," he said. "But I should get going. I'm always late, as it is." He pushed himself up from the concrete stairs and found his legs slightly more stable than before. Weak and shaky, but no longer inclined to fold up beneath him. _Fold like a cheap suit_, he thought.

"Take it easy, man," the kid said.

"Thanks," he answered, beginning to creep down the street, nervous as an old man on ice. "Be nice to your brother."

"Yes, mom," the boy said with exaggerated cooperativeness, and a laugh in his voice.

It was slow going. He found himself resting more than once, on his knees or on his butt or lying facedown on the pavement like it was a bed, with no memory of deciding to abandon his plan of remaining upright.

Once he tripped and fell headfirst into a chain-link fence, which triggered a reaction of bewildering sounds – a dog barking, a cat squalling, people shouting, the fence clanging as he tried to stand. The noise jittered around in his skull like pebbles in a soup can, casting confetti into his other senses until he tasted purple stars and smelled bitter cranberries.

Once he blinked up at a harshly brilliant streetlight only to have sun-rays come thundering down around him, a little drop of light glittering on each yellow grass stem in the abandoned lot where he lay, like an impossible tangle of Christmas lights.

He rolled and pushed himself to his feet. Across the street was a Shell station with a convenience store. The traffic blurred and rushed past him, this way and that, but he waited patiently, crouched on the sidewalk, until he saw no movement in his vision.

A song bloomed in his mind, and as he waited, he listened, intrigued. _The long and winding road….that leads to your door/ Will never disappear/ I've seen that road before… it always leads me here… leads me to your door._

He crossed the street and lurched between the gas pumps, opened the door to a silvery tinkling sound that sent splinters through his vision and a bitter taste flooding his mouth.

The colors were bright, the packages smelly. He clenched his fists in his pocket and wandered the aisles, trying to focus his vision, his mouth watering with the salty sound of chips and pretzels and sticks of beef jerky. The soda fountain hummed invitingly.

_Many times I've been alone and many times I've cried/ Anyway you'll never know… the many ways I've tried…_

"Hey, guy, buy something or – or, go on about your business," the clerk commanded.

He checked his pockets. Still empty. He shuffled slowly to the door and put his back against it to open it, not looking toward the cash register station.

He walked until the sidewalk turned a dim gray in front of him again, then turned into a laundry mat to sprawl in discomfort across a row of four hard plastic chairs. He dozed to the warmth of the clothes dryers and the sound of the machines, startling when a door was banged open, soothed again when someone's conversation washed over him.

"Hey, we're closing!" someone shouted, and he raised his arms instinctively to protect himself before the words made sense. Someone muttered, "_Damn addicts_," as he pushed through that door into the night.

_And still they lead me back… to the long… winding road…_

He walked until he stumbled into a parked car, which reacted with a shriek of exposed modesty, screaming and flashing him as he tried to apologize and shush the vehicle, and more voices yelled and threatened until he staggered into darkness more quiet.

All around, traffic hummed and rumbled like blood coursing through the city's veins. Several times he tried to follow that current, only to be pulled back to an invisible track. This way is home. He peered at signs, trying to see if maybe there weren't more visible signals to explain this to him. Wrong way. One way. Stop.

This way is home. _This_ way.

He crossed a railroad track and stood at a curve in the road just down from a traffic light, watching it blink red-green-yellow-red for minutes. Or hours. It was a very fast street – no, it was a street where the _cars_ were very fast. He waited and waited, and then, when the sky was black and the stars old friends, he walked.

Down the street, around a corner, up a hill. The streetlight shone down on a row of cars at the curb. When he reached the end of the row, he stepped up to the curb, onto the grass. There was a sidewalk path half-hidden, overgrown.

_Don't leave me waiting here… lead me to your door…_

He cocked his head, studying the path, then followed it.

At the end of the walk was a white-rock garden and a tan-stucco wall, a darker brown door and a blue mat. Without thinking, he bent to lift a corner of the mat, and a golden key shone in the streetlight.

He fit the key into the lock, and turned the door handle. Stepping inside, he remembered to close and lock the door behind him. Overhead, a dog woofed a quiet and abbreviated warning.

Just beside him was the ugliest couch he'd ever seen. And it was beautiful. He turned, knelt on the arm of it, and crawled forward til his whole length was sprawled in comfort, and the crown of his head butted against the opposite armrest.

_To market, to market, to buy a fat hog… home again, home again_… He fell asleep.

**Movies referenced – The Pink Panther Strikes Again, The Matrix.**


	12. For What Ails

**Chapter 12: For What Ails**

Sunday morning. Arthur lay in his bed in his basement apartment, awareness slowly gathering with the dawning light. He resisted it, knowing, remembering the pain each morning consciousness had brought, each morning since Monday. Monday, when Merlin disappeared.

Arthur rolled over, squinted up at the ceiling through the thin gray chill of dawn. Today felt different. Today, even though he knew in his mind that his friend was _gone_, his heart beat regularly. Calmly. Confidently.

He was hungry, he realized. Hadn't really been hungry in – days. He shoved the bedding aside, reaching to pull on a shirt before he began to move about the tiny two-room apartment. He was still pulling the hem of the shirt down over his pajama pants when he reached the foot of the bed – and froze.

There was Merlin, asleep facedown on the couch, his feet with shoes still on hanging over the arm of the furniture nearest the door. As though he'd been there all along.

"Merlin!" The name burst from Arthur's lips, as he rushed to the couch, dropped to one knee, prepared to throw an arm around his friend_, I thought we'd lost you_…

Merlin didn't stir, and Arthur hesitated, looking more critically at the young man. He was wearing a set of worn and filthy medical scrubs, the bones of his ankles protruding over the battered sneakers on his bare feet. His skin was unusually pale, and damp though he shivered as he slept. His lips had a tinge of blue, both eyes encircled by the dark purple-brown color of a bruise from cheekbones to eyebrows.

"What happened to you?" Arthur whispered. "Where have you been?" Not so much as a flutter of eyelash in response. He put his hand carefully, gently on Merlin's shoulder, feeling the chill of the sorcerer's flesh through the thin cotton. "Merlin," he said again.

Merlin's eyes opened, focused slowly on Arthur's left knee – and seemed content to stay there. Arthur ducked to the side, trying to catch his friend's attention. Merlin's face was absolutely expressionless – no goofy smile, no relief, no fear, no pain. Just – nothing.

"Can you sit up?" Arthur asked. He wanted to give the teenager a quick once-over, decide whether an ambulance or a trip to the ER was necessary… for all he knew, Merlin could be bleeding out into his couch cushions right now.

Merlin's gaze returned to Arthur's knee, as if it were a question that required a few moments' pondering, or as if he hadn't heard him at all. Seconds ticked by, then Merlin pushed himself up, swinging his feet to the floor, and slumped back. He turned his head, staring blankly around the room, looking for something he couldn't find, or seeing it for the first time. It was eerie to watch, and Arthur resisted a shiver, even as he noted the absence of any obvious injuries. Merlin spent almost as much time here as Arthur did, more even, if you counted daytime when Arthur was on campus.

"Are you all right?" Arthur said quietly, still kneeling. Something told him to treat his friend with extreme care and caution. He didn't want to stand until he was sure it would not result in unintentional intimidation.

Merlin's gaze fastened to his face again, and he cocked his head slightly. "You're my friend, aren't you," he said. "My one friend."

"What do you mean?" Arthur said. "You have a lot of friends, you know that. We've been worried about you."

A slight wrinkle of confusion appeared between Merlin's eyebrows. He whispered, "We care about you, Marvin, we worry about you. Listen to the doctors, and be sure to obey them. They only want what's best for you."

Arthur's blood chilled, and he tried to look into Merlin's eyes, tried to see his _friend_ there. Now he wasn't so sure Merlin had returned to them. _What the _hell_ happened?_ "Are you all right?" Arthur said again.

"No," Merlin said slowly, distantly. "No, I really don't think I am."

"We'll take it slow," Arthur promised. _When I get my hands on the _bastard… "Are you hungry?"

Merlin's eyes widened and the corner of his mouth quirked slightly. "Peanut butter," he said.

"Oh, I think I can do better than that," Arthur said. He moved to open the half-fridge and pulled out a microwaveable Jimmy Dean skillet meal. "I think you could do with a hot breakfast." He stood and backed up a few steps into the kitchen/laundry nook, though Merlin reacted not at all to his movements. He put the package into the microwave, punched the buttons, and leaned on the counter, arms folded over his chest. "Do you want to talk about what happened?" he asked neutrally, as nonthreatening as he could manage.

"I can't," Merlin said, with disarming honesty.

_Okay, we'll come back to that_. "Can you tell me what happened on Monday?" Arthur said. "We got a tip on the clinic Friday night, but it looked like we showed up too late. Can you tell me how you escaped?"

Merlin's lips moved, repeating soundlessly, _Monday, clinic, escape_. Arthur was reminded strongly of a time, long ago, when he'd entered an otherwise empty stable to find his servant lying face down in horse dung. The same lost disorientation, the same inability to explain or excuse… _but no one voluntarily falls asleep in horse dung, do they?_

"Don't you know?" Arthur prompted, still in a tone of gentle kindness.

Merlin looked at him and lifted his left hand to rub absently at his breastbone. "I died?" he said.

_I _was_ dying_. Arthur said, in his best soothing voice, "Don't worry about it right now, time enough for that later. You're home again and safe, that's good enough for now."

"I live here?" Merlin said curiously.

The microwave dinged, and Arthur covered his consternation with peeling plastic wrap off the steaming bowl of sausage and potatoes in white gravy, and finding a fork in the drawer. _What the hell is wrong with Merlin? What have they done to him?_

"It's my apartment," Arthur explained cautiously. "Careful, that's still hot." Merlin blew eagerly on his first bite, wincing as he chewed, but not waiting to continue with the next bite, eating more ravenously than Arthur had ever seen him eat before. Which was saying something – his friend could cram more in his mouth at a time than anyone else Arthur knew. "I live here half the week while I'm taking classes. University of Baltimore." Arthur didn't understand - Merlin _knew_ this. The conversation felt very unreal.

"So I don't live here?" Merlin said around another mouthful.

"You drive up with me sometimes from Alexandria," Arthur said, still watching him for some spark of recognition, some hint of familiarity, some _oh-yeah_ moment when everything would come flooding back to his friend. It didn't happen. "Otherwise you live with Gaius in his townhouse." At Merlin's look of quizzical concentration, Arthur elaborated, "Gaius is your grandfather." How could he not remember that?

"Oh. That's – good." It was like Merlin knew a response was necessary, but he didn't know which one was most appropriate.

Arthur reached for his phone on the counter next to the tv, while Merlin continued to wolf down his breakfast. He composed the text, **Hes back. Poor shape. Be w/ Gaius in an hr. Gwen & Freya come in 2 hrs. Knights come late ftrnoon**. He hit _Send All_, then powered the phone off.

"Want some juice with that?" Arthur offered casually. Merlin made a face. "Coffee?" he added. "I'll have to walk down to the corner – maybe you'd like to take a shower while I'm out?" Merlin scraped his fork around the edge of the paper bowl, then again. Then he used his finger to catch the last smears of gravy. "If you're still hungry –" Arthur said hesitantly.

"I'm fine." The ghost of Merlin's wide irreverent grin brushed across his pale features, but didn't touch his eyes. "Ah – shower?" He glanced around.

Arthur gestured to the door in the corner. "You can borrow some of my things," he said, heading for the footlocker as Merlin pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

As Arthur bent to rummage for a clean pair of track pants and a sweatshirt, he glanced over to see Merlin opening the closet door. His friend stared blankly at a built-in laundry board and the second-hand vacuum cleaner before ducking his head to peer sideways into the closet, as if somehow the bathroom was hiding from him.

Arthur had dealt with traumatic situations – they both had. Humor had been one of their preferred _coping mechanisms_, as they called it now, but that didn't seem appropriate anymore. He'd also dealt with people coming out of such situations – Uther Pendragon after the fall of Camelot one of the worst he'd ever seen. That same loss of purpose, of the very sense of self, was what he now saw in Merlin.

"That door," he said aloud, pointing. Merlin swung around to look at him, then tested the bathroom door like it might prove to be another closet. Arthur carried the clean clothes to him, dumped them down on the closed lid of the toilet. "Take your time," he said to his friend. "Make sure you warm up." Merlin was glancing around the tiny bathroom the same way he'd studied the apartment. He didn't know where things were anymore, regular ordinary things – "The blue towel's the one you usually use," Arthur added, and Merlin nodded. "I'll just – leave you to it, then. Let me know if you need anything."

_It's like babysitting_, he thought incredulously, _like I'm taking care of a child who doesn't know me very well. This is insane_, he told himself, pacing back and forth on the rug. _What did they do to him? _Gaius sure as hell had better have some answers, and a damn good solution. He was going to nail those bastards to the wall – to the side of a barn door somewhere out in the country, and use them for target practice – his crossbow skills were a bit rusty, and –

"Arthur?" Merlin's voice came through the bathroom door. "What's this?"

Arthur opened the door, hoping he wasn't going to have to explain how the shower controls worked, or something more ridiculous, and stopped short. Merlin held a round disk in his hand, of some soft thin white material, with a silver metal knob in the middle. He'd removed the scrub shirt, and the bones of his ribs stood out, and his shoulder blades as Arthur reached to turn him slightly. There were more round white disks with metal knobs stuck to his skin, in the hollows beneath his prominent collarbones, a handful following the curve of his lowest left rib, and a couple more on his back, where he'd have a hard time reaching them. He peeled the stickers off his friend's skin, as gently as possible, rubbing briefly at the residue around one, which had gathered a shadow of lint from the shirt, so long had it been on.

"What the hell did they do to you, Merlin?" he said, more roughly than he'd intended. Merlin looked at him with more uncertainty than he'd ever seen in those fearless blue eyes, and his stomach twisted. He took the last sticker from Merlin's hand. "Never mind, we'll figure it out," he promised. "Get in the shower – you'll feel better when you're clean and warm."

He shut the door, and the water spray turned on in the shower. He returned to pacing, hearing the rubbing sounds of Merlin's bare feet on the plastic floor of the stall, trying to organize his thoughts around the rage that simmered inside.

One, he and Merlin had gone head to head with a ruthless terrorist mastermind in June, and had prevailed. Two, somehow said mastermind had found out about Merlin's unique abilities, and had further linked the magic, somehow, to his DNA, present in his blood. Three, Frederick and Hyden were involved, though how deeply he didn't know, but Merlin's performance on the firing range had prompted the abduction, he was sure of it.

It was more than just a criminal curious about his nemesis. More than just some mad scientist studying an anomaly and testing a theory on some innocent naval instructor bystander.

He wondered if Merlin had somehow escaped – or if he'd been released. And what would that mean, if it was true?

As he passed the kitchen counter, he snatched up his phone and powered it back on. Ignoring the half a dozen missed calls and messages, their friends' response to his news, he opted for text-messaging. He didn't want to have a conversation with anyone right now, while he was still so confused and unsure about Merlin's condition – how far the vague and ominous forgetfulness went. How lost Merlin really was in his own mind.

To Percival he sent: **Anything new on loc/admin Longley's shot?** To Gwaine he sent: **Anything new w/ clinic scene invest?** Then he turned the phone off again. And paced.

He became aware gradually that the sounds of movement from the bathroom, from the shower, had ceased, though the water was still running. Usually Merlin was all bumping elbows and knocking knees in the small space – hell, even _he_ sometimes emerged with a bruise or two, that shower was _not_ sized for an adult male. At least he hadn't heard the clatter of his friend passing out and collapsing, but it was clear Merlin was no longer moving. At all.

He wondered how long he should wait. He wondered if maybe he should rap his knuckles on the door and make some teasing joke, as if everything was normal. _Did you fall asleep in there?_ One of his childhood nanny's favorites. Another one was, _You're going to turn into a prune_. Or even, _You get to pay the hot water bill if you stay in there for one more minute._

"Merlin?" Arthur said.

"Mm."

What did that mean? _I'm here, I'm still alive, I'm listening_ – leave me the hell alone?

"Gaius – ah, your grandfather – is expecting us pretty soon – you about done?"

Another minute passed, then the water was turned off. Arthur paced, up and down, up and down. He opened a cupboard for a fruit-and-granola bar for his own breakfast, then grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge.

And Merlin emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and tousled – he always did prefer his fingers to an actual comb. That little detail gave Arthur a warm spark of hope. His friend looked odd in Arthur's red Cardinals sweatshirt, his bony wrists showing below the sleeve-cuffs, his arms were longer than Arthur's. He held the wad of hospital scrubs in one hand, and the battered tennis shoes in the other. Arthur found a plastic shopping bag for the scrubs, slipping the sticky leads into it also, while his back was turned.

"Are these mine?" Merlin said, frowning slightly as he studied the shoes. "They don't fit that well."

Probably all of Merlin's things had been taken. That meant they'd have to deal with the Department of Transportation over his driver's license, and Sprint over the cell phone. Leon could do that, Arthur decided.

"Just wear them for now," he advised Merlin. "You can get a different pair when we get you home." Merlin nodded and dropped the footwear to step into – but reeled and almost toppled when he tried to lift one foot and balance on the other. "Geez, take it easy," Arthur said, moving to support his friend.

"Thanks," Merlin said breathlessly.

"Let's go," Arthur said. "We'll get coffee on the way."

Once in the car, on highway 295 south, styrofoam cups of coffee in the console holders, Merlin shifted in his seat, his hand slipping down by his side. "Do these seats lay down?" he asked.

"On your other side," Arthur pointed. How many times hadn't Merlin kicked back, leaning the seat down as far as it would go, even propping his feet up on the dashboard, without so much as a by-your-leave from the Mustang's owner?

The seat-back lowered, and Merlin adjusted it tentatively, glancing at Arthur as if for further permission. _Ye gods!_ The happy-go-lucky clumsy-yet-loyal servant was gone, the edgier-yet-willing partner was gone – what the hell was Destiny screwing with his friend for? _Leave him alone_, he thought, clenching his teeth, addressing Destiny, Xander, Mordred, Hyden – all of them – _leave him the hell alone!_

Arthur pushed the power button for the radio, but only static came out, as Merlin cuddled into the passenger seat and closed his eyes, tucking his hands under arms held tightly to his chest. Arthur manipulated the knob controlling the station – perhaps if he could find a song or two influenced by his friend's unconscious magic he could get an idea of what was going on inside his mind.

But there was nothing. No reception of any stations at all – no classical, no country and western, no hard rock – no soft rock – not even an AM talk show. Just –soft static.

He looked over again. Merlin was asleep, the dark circles around his eyes even more apparent with them shut. There was a tightness to his jaw, a hint of squint-wrinkles around his eyes.

_Get him to Gaius_, Arthur thought helplessly. A little desperately, if he were honest. _Get him to Gaius_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Merlin," Arthur said, turning off the engine of the Mustang and pocketing the keys. A light drizzle had begun to fall, and the silence of the car was deafening after half an hour of squeaky wiper-blades. Not that Merlin noticed either. Arthur nudged his friend's shoulder and Merlin opened his eyes to stare at the side of the driver's seat.

It reminded Arthur so forcibly of how his friend had looked and acted after his inexplicable survival of the dorocha attack, he lost his breath for a moment. Damn that IED – what he wouldn't give to be able to ask Lancelot how Merlin's cure had been accomplished so quickly and completely.

At least Merlin wasn't begging to come along on a suicide mission. At least Arthur wasn't having to try to say a last goodbye to someone who was barely coherent or responsive.

Merlin shifted enough to bring his gaze to Arthur's eyes, but no expression came to the younger man's face.

"We're here," Arthur said, gesturing out the front window. "Your grandfather's townhouse."

Merlin's eyes were on the building in front of them and his hand landed on the door handle, fingers finding the latch and pulling it open though he hadn't even looked. _He has_, Arthur reminded himself, _opened that door twenty times in his life, at least, that's a good sign_ – and Merlin stepped out of the car, leaving the seat reclined, forgotten.

The front door slammed open, and Gaius hurried down the porch stairs, arms spread. "My boy!" he exclaimed. Merlin didn't anticipate the old man's fierce embrace at all, he didn't take steps to meet him, didn't raise his arms to return the gesture. Just stood.

"Merlin – what happened?" Gaius demanded, placing his hands along his grandson's jaw and turning his face right and left to study him.

"Gaius," Merlin said, his voice a mix of query and relief. "Or – do I call you grandfather? _Grampa_ – no, that's not right."

Gaius' eyebrow climbed, and he looked at Arthur silently. Arthur shook his head, unable to answer. "Come in, my boy," he said. "You've always said Gaius, there's no need to change, now."

Arthur followed them up the stairs to the front door. He didn't miss how Merlin clung to the handrail or hesitated at each step as if unsure he possessed the strength to climb. Gaius shot him another sternly questioning look as Merlin bumped into the wall twice going down the front corridor.

"Come in here," Gaius said, indicating the main-level master bedroom. "I'll look you over, see if there's anything to be done for you. How do you feel, hm? Dizzy, light-headed, weak? What else?"

Arthur detoured into the living room as the old physician pressed his grandson down to the edge of the bed. The little white Scottie darted in, jumped up beside Merlin, and pushed his head insistently under Merlin's hand. He listened to the murmur of Gaius' questions, Merlin's answers, and the occasional jingle that accompanied Merlin's attentions to the pet. He paced up and down Gaius' living room. He wanted a drink. He wanted _Gwen_. He checked his phone.

Message from Percival: **Smllpx** **vac admin w st med. Trcking down nurse resp**. Message from Gwaine: **No luck on prints. All wiped clean. Dmpstr search clothes etc. nothing yet.**

Arthur paced. The tv was blank, the radio silent. He didn't try to turn them on, afraid to find that the cable was out or the reception lost on the radio here, too. What did that mean? Was Merlin's magic trying to convey a message? What the hell kind of message was – nothing?

A knock sounded on Gaius' front door. Arthur was halfway down the hall when it opened, and Gwen put her head in. Seeing Arthur, she pushed the door to the wall, revealing Freya close behind her. The girls wore similarly anxious expressions, and both of them tried to look beyond him.

"Is he really here?" Gwen said.

Freya added, "Is he all right?" Both spoke in quiet voices, like ones habitually used in hospitals.

"He's here," Arthur answered. "He's – not feeling himself. Don't expect too much."

With a quick nod, Freya passed him to join Merlin and Gaius in the bedroom. Gwen remained with Arthur in the hallway, stepping closer. "What's wrong, Arthur?" she asked. "What happened? Yesterday you told me you investigated a tip from the missing-persons hotline, but he wasn't there."

They heard Merlin say, "I'm okay. I'm just tired."

"I woke up this morning, and he was sleeping on the couch," Arthur said, speaking softly as she had, so their voices wouldn't carry to the bedroom. "He's –" He shook his head. "He's - _not okay_, Gwen." She moved into his arms and he leaned his forehead down on her shoulder, holding her tight, drawing in the comfort she offered.

"Arthur." Gaius' voice, the one he used when something was critical but sensitive.

Gwen followed to the master bedroom as Arthur went to join the physician. Merlin, without the Cardinals sweatshirt dressed only in a t-shirt with Arthur's track pants, lay on his side, eyes closed. Freya was seated on the bed behind him, a look of horror on her face as her hand unconsciously smoothed Merlin's hair. Gaius, leaning over his grandson, turned to give Arthur a stern look that meant he was holding back great emotion.

"There's something you need to see," Gaius said. He pointed to Merlin's left arm, out-flung on the comforter, palm up. A long ugly bruise showed along the inside of his arm, and in the center at the crook of his elbow, two tiny but separate lines, no bigger than paper cuts, not the same as the pinprick mark left behind by a needle.

"_What_?" Arthur said.

Gaius' fingers and Freya's brushed through Merlin's thick black hair cooperatively, exposing a small area, the size of Arthur's thumbprint, behind Merlin's right ear. It had been shaved, and dot-scab formed in the center. Merlin's eyes didn't open.

"What the hell is that?" Arthur whispered.

"There's another one on the other side, too," Gaius said. Freya nodded, her other hand tucked beneath Merlin's head. Arthur, completely at a loss for what questions to ask, gave Gaius a look communicating the confusion and disgust he felt. "He needs rest, sire," Gaius said, gesturing for Arthur and Gwen to leave the room.

Gwen leaned forward briefly to pat Merlin's leg where the Scottie was lying, but he gave no sign he'd felt her caress. Arthur paused in the doorway, looking back. Freya curled up against Merlin's back, reaching one arm over his waist to hold herself closely against him. Tears slid soundlessly down her face.

Arthur went to the living room to join Gwen and Gaius, retrieving the sticky circles from the shopping bag to hand to the old physician. "Here, and here," he said, pointing to their approximate location, demonstrating on his own body, collarbone, and left rib. "And on his back. Gaius. What's wrong with him? What did they do to him?"

"Physically speaking, I believe he is suffering from hypovolemia," Gaius answered, studying the sticky pieces, rubbing the little metal knob in the center of one. "Extreme blood loss."

"But he's not bleeding," Arthur argued. "He has no injuries, no wound –"

"Not anymore," Gaius said.

"You mean those tiny cuts?" Arthur said incredulously.

"I believe he is also recovering from the last effects of a hallucinogen," Gaius said. Arthur pushed a hand through his hair. "Knowing Merlin, I would say that whoever took him on Monday obviously had a well-reasoned plan. And it worked."

Gwen said, "What makes you say that?"

"Because it took Merlin a week to win free," Arthur muttered.

"Indeed. I believe he must have been surprised, and drugged," Gaius said. "Those marks on his elbow and the bruising are both consistent with the effects of blood donation – in this case, probably involuntary."

Gwen's hand covered her mouth. Arthur felt sick to his stomach.

"He would have been weak, disoriented. Arthur, you said that hotline led you to a weekend medical clinic? From your description of the positioning of these heart-monitor leads," he held up one of the stickers, "I would venture to guess it was simple for them to convince Merlin that he was in the hands of medical professionals – because they obviously had the correct training - people he wouldn't question. It grieves me to think what they might have told him to gain his cooperation."

Arthur said grimly, "_Listen to the doctors, and be sure to obey them. They only want what's best for you_." He leaned his forehead into his hand, and Gwen put her other hand on his knee. "What about the marks on his head, then?"

Gaius remained silent for a few moments, though his expression betrayed his internal conflict. "They provided a legitimate medical setting, complete with equipment and personnel," he said. "From your experience in the hospital, Arthur, what might you guess to be the one thing they could not provide to pacify Merlin?"

Arthur closed his eyes, remembering the beeping of equipment, the dripping of the IV, properly inserted and secured in his arm, the sensors that assured him his life was being closely guarded by professionals. He remembered the nurses rushing in when his blood pressure dropped, scolding his father… he remembered his anxiety for Merlin's safety… the sight of Leon patient in his chair convincing him he was still alive.

"Visitors," he uttered.

"Exactly." Gaius look old, and exhausted. "From the positioning of those marks on his scalp, I would have to say that someone attempted to manipulate Merlin's memories or senses, or both."

"But _why_?" Gwen said.

"To distract him. Perhaps he was questioning his surroundings, the lies he was undoubtedly being told. Perhaps to convince him he was receiving visitors, if that's what would keep him calm." Gaius hesitated, clearly trying to decide whether to continue, and Arthur twirled one finger in a wordless command for the old man to finish his thought. "It would not have been difficult to do so had the necessary sensory input been ready to hand."

"Sensory input?" Arthur said.

Gaius cleared his throat. "You did not recover his phone, did you, sire?" Arthur shook his head. "There would be images stored on the phone, voices," Gaius said, "that could have been employed to persuade Merlin that what he perceived was true."

"You mean," Gwen said, upset and angry but controlling her emotions, "that someone used our pictures and our voices to force Merlin to cooperate while they – while they –"

"While they stole his blood," Arthur said furiously, and she blanched. "What can they possibly mean to do with it?" he continued. "If they tested an injection of this Emrys strain on Adam Longley, and if Longley did spontaneously begin to perform magic and then panicked so badly he ended up dead, surely they would know – they would realize – that it didn't work."

"It depends," Gaius said softly, "on what results they were hoping for. Now that they have a few pints of Merlin's blood –"

"A few _pints_?" Gwen echoed hollowly. The floor seemed to sink out from under Arthur's feet.

"Oh, at least. The question becomes, what do they intend to do with it?"

_Xander_, Arthur thought. _Damn_ Xander.

"How did he get away?" Gwen whispered.

"I asked him that," Arthur said, remembering the restraints attached to the bed. Coupled with memory-manipulation, it made for horror-movie material.

"And what did he say?" Gaius was intrigued.

"He said he died."

Gaius frowned. "As that is obviously not the case, I wonder if –"

"If what?" Arthur demanded.

"If he did not escape," the old man answered.

"You mean, they let him go?" Arthur said. "They got what they wanted from him-"

"And put a hallucinogenic drug into his system –"

"And just let him go," Arthur finished. He squeezed his head between his hands, horrified at the thought of Merlin wandering downtown Baltimore in that condition.

"He could have _died_," Gwen exclaimed. "We might have never found him – if he hadn't remembered his way home…"

"They probably expected those things," Gaius said. "At the very least, they probably bet that no one would believe whatever details he could remember, to be able to relate."

_Whatever he could remember… to be _able_ to_… "What do we do for him?" Arthur asked. "Gaius, would hypo-volemia and a hallucinogen cause the – vagueness, the memory loss?"

Gaius pressed his lips together. "If they employed artificial stimuli of the hippocampus, the memory center of the brain, there is no telling what the effects might be, short-term or long-term or – permanent."

Permanent. Oh, _hell_.

"What do you mean, vagueness and memory loss?" Gwen said.

It was Arthur who answered. "He evidently found his way to the apartment, found the key under the mat… but he acted like he didn't recognize anything… he opened the closet door looking for the bathroom."

"But if he was disoriented –" Gwen protested.

"He asked me if I was his friend," Arthur said, and she stared at him, shocked. "He asked if he should call Gaius _Grampa_." _But he did say, _Arthur_ what's this, when he was focused on those sticker-things… he didn't have to ask my name_…

"We'll just have to give him some time, and space," Gaius said. "He may be aware that his memory was affected, and he may not. We must all be cautious not to make him feel guilty for not remembering everything at once. We must be careful not to press him too hard or too quickly."

Arthur said as much to Leon and Gwaine, when they arrived later in the afternoon. Merlin had woken briefly to consume three sandwiches and two bottles of water in five minutes, and had stumbled right back to Gaius' bed without so much as a complete sentence for any of them. Freya, his quiet shadow, never left his side.

Leon agreed to take care of the considerations of Merlin's lost property with a capable, "Yes, sire."

Arthur turned the shopping bag of filthy scrubs and the wrong-size sneakers over to Gwaine to pass on to the investigators at the police department. "If he was wearing these all over Baltimore from Friday night to whatever time Saturday night he got to your place," Gwaine said, "I doubt they can find much useful evidence in all that muck."

Freya appeared at the door of the bedroom, face pale and tear-stained. She glanced around at them, then headed for Gwen in the kitchen, releasing her sobs as Gwen met her and enfolded her in her arms. Arthur left the two knights in the living room, and Gaius rose from the table.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"He can't do it anymore," Freya said brokenly. "Whatever they did to him, to his mind – he can't do it anymore. He didn't believe me, but he tried…"

"Can't do what?" Gwen said kindly.

"He seemed more calm, more rested," she said. "I wanted to cheer him up, so I asked him – but he can't –" she sobbed again, and Arthur wondered if they wanted to question any further, if she was speaking of something of a nature more intimate to their relationship.

Gaius obviously had no such compunctions. "Can't what?" he asked bluntly.

"Telekinesis. He can't move anything, anymore."

Gwen gave Arthur one horrified look before he turned and strode to the bedroom, distantly aware of Gaius close behind.

Merlin sat on the edge of the bed, stretching his arms and rolling his head on his shoulders. He yawned and opened his eyes as Arthur rounded the bed and Gaius sank down next to him.

"What happened?" Arthur demanded, forgetting the kid-gloves approach the old physician had counseled. "You can't do magic anymore?"

"Magic?" Merlin said blankly. "You mean that – telekinesis Freya was talking about?"

"Do you remember if they did something to you?" Gaius asked, more gently than Arthur had. "Did they give you something –"

Merlin scoffed in disbelief. "_Magic_?" he said again. "There's no such thing as magic."

**A/N: Thank you scrubbedceiling for you review – it made me stop and think, why didn't the idea of bugs and phone-tapping occur to me… I guess because that would be hearsay, and people say a lot of things… the incident with Hyden and his attempt to shoot Arthur was more about making Merlin **_**prove**_** his magic, you see? It had already been a joke that Marvin's nickname "Merlin" was due to his computer skills, added to the coincidence of the boss' son being named Arthur… and with Agent Chance, they brushed it off as a harmless delusion based on his troubled childhood…the whole "send him down to Bragg" idea was to get him on his own and provoke a display of indisputable magic… before they risked abducting him…hope that's explanation enough?**

**Okay, and how have I managed to get Merlin into the shower three times already this story? Is that weird, or what? though not an – entirely – unpleasant – prospect…**


	13. The Eye of the Dragon

**Chapter 13: The Eye of the Dragon**

When Merlin entered the front door of Camelot Laboratories, the gray-uniformed guard gave him a big grin. "Look who's back," he said. "You know, things were in a mild uproar around here when you disappeared last week."

"So I gathered," Merlin said noncommittally, heading for the locked internal door.

"When did you get back?" the guard continued, his hand on the access button, though he hadn't pushed it yet.

"Sunday morning," Merlin said, glad to be able to answer a direct question correctly. And hating that feeling, too.

"Pretty rough week, hm? You could've taken more than a four-day weekend to recover."

Merlin gritted his teeth. _This_ was why he'd been reconsidering his request to return to work – the politely morbid curiosity of the barely-acquainted. But if he wanted to keep this job, he'd have to deal with it sooner or later. "Well, you know, wandering around the house and eating Cheetos and watching Oprah gets old," he said.

Letting the dog out, letting the dog in, stepping to the backyard for a cigarette - all with someone else's eye on him. And the kindly oppressive panic of his friends when he'd strolled by himself down the block and back thinking to pick up the mail for his grandfather.

_If you want to stop being treated like an invalid, you have to stop acting like one_, he reminded himself. "Can I see my grandfather?" he reminded the guard.

"He just got in."

"He left his phone in the car," Merlin explained, holding up the slim silver device. The guard nodded and hit the button, and Merlin slipped through the door.

Gaius' office was empty. He glanced around – the desk, the bookshelves, the clutter all coming to his mind through his vision as new and unfamiliar. But somehow he knew that the chunk of green glass had a smooth spot on the bottom, that the round stone fit almost exactly in his palm. He knew the books were alphabetized by author's last name.

He _remembered_, but it was as if his mind didn't _know_ he remembered – or he _knew_, but he didn't _remember_ that he knew – or – something. _Well, how much sense does that make_? he thought irritably. He glanced through the window into the lab and recognized his grandfather from behind, white lab coat matching his bristly white fringe of hair. He returned to the hall and put his hand on the door to the lab, intending to open it and proclaim his presence.

"How much of Merlin's blood do you think Longley was injected with?"

Merlin froze at the sound of Arthur's voice. He remembered a sharp hollow metal _straw_ being pushed into his vein, and shuddered.

"It depends, sire." His grandfather's voice. Odd, how the old man followed along with that joke of Arthur's friends – _his_ friends. Arthur in Camelot – so they called him _sire_, and of course he himself was Merlin. "If they subjected Merlin's sample to any sort of refining process, or simply used a measure of the blood itself. Without more research, I simply cannot speculate on a quantitative number of the population at actual risk."

Merlin's back was to the wall, and he allowed himself to slide down to a crouching position.

"I cannot work out what their next move might be," Arthur's voice said intensely. "More testing? Widespread distribution, a biological terrorist weapon? Introduce the Emrys strain to as many as possible? Or keep it for use on a select few who might volunteer, who might know what they're getting into?"

Emrys… What the hell was wrong with him? That someone would kidnap him for his blood? That there would be something there to infect other people with? He twisted his black leather wristband around and around. His friends had assured him he hadn't been taken to the hospital after a suicide attempt, hadn't been restrained for his own good - but invariably his thoughts returned to why it had been necessary to keep him contained.

He pressed his fingertips to his temples. _Monster_. _No_, he answered. _I'm no different from anyone else. I'm ordinary._ But there was a reason he'd been taken. He gripped his shirt over his heart. _Your blood is toxic to the rest of us. We can't leave you alive in their hands._

"What about Merlin?" Arthur's voice again. "Have you gotten any closer to finding out what they gave him?"

_A hallucinogen_, he thought. Or something more?

"Unfortunately, no. But I believe whatever it is, works in a similar fashion to the antimetabolite used in treatment of certain cancers, interfering with the production of DNA. Which, in Merlin's case, means the suppression of certain – unique abilities."

_The telekinesis_, Merlin thought dazedly. He hadn't disbelieved Freya, she was so sweet and pretty and earnest, and he _knew_ he loved her, but the suggestion of him moving things with his mind was just so – unreal.

"You mean they gave him chemotherapy for his –" Arthur's voice trailed off in horror.

"In a way of speaking, sire," Gaius answered.

"You think it's just a block, maybe? Or a – cure? Is it permanent?"

Cure was good. It meant that whatever they were worried about him spreading, it wasn't fatal. _Why wouldn't they tell me, if I was sick? And why would someone have to cure me by force?_

"Only time will tell, Arthur." His grandfather sounded tired. Merlin wished he could be of more help to him, more comfort. Gaius had been unusually prone to spilling things, since Sunday, and even though Merlin always volunteered to clean the mess quickly, it seemed to upset the old man considerably.

"Where is he now?" Arthur asked.

"He dropped me off. He intended to join you in Camelot Securities this morning."

"Did he walk over, or did he drive?" Arthur asked. There was a pause, probably Gaius indicating his ignorance of Merlin's plans. "Dammit, Gaius, how could you leave him alone?" Quick footsteps approached the door. Merlin tried to straighten, to stand, but found he lacked the strength to do it without struggling slowly upright.

Gaius was saying, "You must allow him some space, Arthur, he's going to resent –" when Arthur threw the door open, almost stumbling over Merlin on his haunches against the corridor wall. Arthur stared down at Merlin, who stared back defiantly. Then Arthur reached to give him a hand up.

_Get the hell off me_, he thought. Or_, I didn't know you cared so much_. He said, "Thanks."

"Been waiting long?" Arthur asked, casually enough, but he sent Gaius a look Merlin knew immediately meant the young man was worried about what he might have overheard.

"A few minutes," he said, and held out Gaius' phone. "You left this in the car."

"Oh, thank you, my boy," the old man said.

"Well, we better get a move on, if we don't want Gwaine to complain that we're late for the Round Table meeting," Arthur said, beginning to lead him down the hall toward the entrance.

"Round Table," Merlin snickered, taking his place to Arthur's right and half a step behind. "That's a good one." Arthur threw him a troubled glance, but didn't say anything more until they reached Camelot's headquarters, entering the building and heading for their office.

True to Merlin's expectations, everyone they encountered wanted to gawk under the pretence of welcoming him back. Arthur couldn't have been better, fielding questions with vague but reassuring answers, excusing them from entangling conversations like a pro. All Merlin had to do was follow along and keep his head down, but by the time they reached their own office, he was near-strangling the strap of his satchel over his shoulder.

"Welcome back," said Leon, rising from his chair in the corner by the window, asking Arthur some question with his eyes that Merlin couldn't translate.

"What the matter, mate?" asked Gwaine at Merlin's right hand, distracting him from whatever answer Arthur's face made to Leon.

"I just thought – I remembered it was bigger," Merlin said lamely.

The other three exchanged glances, and _hell_ if he wasn't fed up with that, too. "What, the office?" Arthur said.

"No, the table," Merlin answered. A vast room, a wooden table seating twenty or thirty easily, maybe even a device in the center of it…

They looked at each other with a hopeful lightness. _Will you stop!_ he begged them silently_. I don't talk, and you worry. I say something, and you all look at each other and try to find hidden meanings_. Ye gods, but his friends were exhausting. Gaius had thought it likely his memories would all return, given time. _Give me some damn _time, he thought.

"Have a seat," Arthur said, gesturing to his right as the other two made themselves comfortable at the central conference table.

"Do you think this is the best idea?" Leon said to Arthur, gesturing to Merlin, who didn't take offense. He didn't feel he had much to offer a meeting at this point, anyway.

Arthur considered him a moment, and Merlin felt the _lack_ of – _something_, as a physical pain. He wasn't all there, and he knew it. Something was missing; it was something Arthur missed, too, something important… If he couldn't find it, and fast, he would end up disappointing his friend.

"What do you think, Merlin?" Arthur asked. "You want to sit in on the meeting?"

Merlin looked at them, at his best friend, at the other two. They had important things to discuss. And with him sitting there, listening curiously, they would hesitate, they would change what they intended to say, just as everyone had been doing for three days. They none of them spoke freely around him.

"No, I'll just get on the computer," Merlin said. He sat down at his desk, pulled his iPod and ear-buds out of his satchel, pretended he didn't notice the glances of the other three. _One of the topics of today's meeting_, he thought, _will be Merlin – how is he, and what do we do about – _whatever_ the hell it is that's missing_! More than memories, he suspected. He had the feeling that the friends and families of people suffering from amnesia would be falling all over themselves to explain past events, fill in the gaps. He felt almost as if they were hiding something from him.

He powered up his computer system, idly checking the search history. Evidently he'd been researching a scientist by the name of Andrew Spell. _Xander_, he thought. Maybe he was supposed to have the answers to whatever disease Merlin was carrying – only, they said he'd received a cure, hadn't they? Maybe there were side effects, though, and that's why they watched him, watched their words around him, because they didn't trust him.

What boring research! Scientific treatises, medical journal articles, blah blah blah. Merlin keyed instead for the _Alexandria Times_ and the _Baltimore Sun_ online, comparing front page entries on separate screens, then clicking idly to both sports pages.

Huh. They meant to run a marathon in Baltimore weekend after next, on the sixteenth of November. Merlin shivered in sympathy. No thanks. Running was for when you were late, or when you were being pursued by monsters or bad guys.

He frowned, letting his eyes drift from their focus on the computer screen. Drift to Arthur, speaking very seriously to Leon and Gwaine, who listened intently. Why was it that he suspected very strongly he had run from both monsters and bad guys with Arthur? And maybe Leon and Gwaine… That was crazy. Maybe he remembered a video game, or something.

He ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers passed over the tender area beneath the shaved patch, unintentionally jerking that bud from his right ear. He reached to replace it, typing his way to the puzzle page of the newspaper with his left hand, not paying any attention to the voices of his friends' meeting, which mixed with the sound of the Rolling Stones on his iPod.

Until Leon said, "I suspect that the FBI are wrong about Hyden's location."

For the second time that morning, Merlin found himself an unintentional eavesdropper. _Hyden_. His spine straightened involuntarily. That name… there was exhaustion associated with it, fear and anger. He'd been in the army – no, the Boy Scouts – no… He saw green trees and dark mud and heard gunshots – not the Boy Scouts, then – and _uniforms_. And Arthur.

"That hotline is anonymous," Leon continued. "Anyone at all could have called to say they saw him in South Carolina –"

"Anyone who knew his physical description," Arthur pointed out, without disagreeing.

"Someone who knew him or worked with him" Leon went on, "just the sort of person who'd want the authorities to be looking in the wrong direction. He could just as easily have come north."

Arthur's jaw tightened grimly, and Merlin turned just before his friend looked over at him. He adjusted the computer screen on his right – even though it still proclaimed the preparations for the Baltimore marathon, the route marked out on an interactive map to one side, Merlin could now see the reflections of the three men at the table – not clearly, but well enough to catch body language and the more obvious expressions.

"What about Frederick?" Arthur asked Gwaine. That name sent a frisson of apprehension along Merlin's nerves also. _Maybe I don't want to know_. He fingered the ear bud dangling at his collarbone. He could just ignore everything he'd heard, refuse to think about any of it…

"Oh, he's in Houston, sure enough," Gwaine said, and Merlin was inexplicably relieved at the news. Gwaine retrieved a printout from his desk to slap it onto the Round Table in front of Arthur. "He bought a horse ranch. Fifty acres, three mares and an ex-champion thoroughbred. Who wants to bet me how many years' worth of a federal employee's salary that would cost?"

All three shifted in their seats, and Arthur's reflection looked even more hollow-eyed and grim. "I'll talk to Chance," he said. "I'm sure if an NSA agent is accepting bribes he'll want to know." After a moment's pause, he went on, "Yesterday afternoon Percival called to say they'd identified the nurse who gave Longley what was supposed to have been a routine smallpox vaccine. Grace Clayton, an RN, recently let go from the West Street Medical Center in Annapolis due to some allegations that involve theft of pharmacy inventory. No longer residing at her last known address, forwarding address is a post office box, and the physical location ends up being an empty lot out in Edgemere."

_And she has freckles_, Merlin thought, then frowned. How in the world could he know that? Another hallucination? Maybe he should tell Arthur… he glanced over at his friend.

Arthur looked angry. He looked implacable, relentless. Merlin's fingers brushed over his sternum. He remembered Arthur kneeling beside him. _We can't leave you alive…_ The blade slid into his chest, penetrating his heart. As his life gushed from his body, over the chipped tiles, Arthur stood over him. _It had to be done_.

It had to be done it had to be done.

Merlin found he couldn't open his mouth and speak to his friend. Something was missing, something that left a gap, a chasm. Was it trust? He was honestly afraid of whatever look he might see on Arthur's face, if he opened his mouth and released all the thoughts in his head into speech. And Arthur clearly didn't trust him out of his sight. He knew that Arthur thought he had been careless.

He stood, and found himself the center of attention. "May I be excused to take a smoke break?" he said, not really trying to control the sarcasm that crept into his tone, hoping it might help disguise the tremble he felt trying to come out also. "Whose turn is it to come with me?"

The other three exchanged looks. "Who would you like?" Arthur said mildly.

Merlin turned and left. Once outside, he thought he should have brought his sweatshirt – the pinstriped dress shirt was thin, the t-shirt he wore beneath it not much help. He lit his cigarette and crouched by a corner of the building to shelter from the wind. He wasn't surprised at all when Arthur came through the door five minutes later. He leaned against the wall above Merlin, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Be patient with us," Arthur said in the gentle tone he'd been using the last few days. Merlin rather wished he'd raise his voice, call him an idiot – _something_. "We thought we'd lost you."

Merlin sighed out a lungful of smoke and glanced at Arthur. He struggled a moment, feeling the steel in his chest, seeing the complete absence of feeling in those blue eyes, then blurted, "I've wondered. If I really want to remember. If it would be worth it."

Arthur's eyes were on him, expectant and hopeful, and he knew what his friend thought - there might be something _useful_, vital even, among those scattered and dim memories. Merlin suspected the same thing.

"Just take your time," Arthur began soothingly.

"Stop it," Merlin said shortly. He tucked his free hand under his arm for warmth. "I think it's about time you told me what the hell's going on. I mean, I may not remember, but I think I deserve to _know_."

Arthur studied him. "Are you sure?" he said. "There's parts that – you probably won't believe."

Merlin grimaced as a stray breeze wafted his smoke back into his face. "Give me the gist, then."

"In June someone – well, Xander and Mordred –" Another name that made Merlin shudder, but he said nothing. "Stole five drones from Camelot – stop me if you remember."

"It's familiar," Merlin said. He could have drawn a picture of the drone, a fantastic paper-airplane craft half the size of a car, but the context was perfectly dark. "Just – keep going so I'll know I have it straight."

"It was a terrorist plot to launch explosives into major capitals of the world. We found out about it, and our friend Elyan with the navy helped us stop – all the drones." There was something there that Arthur left out, Merlin thought, something that had to do with the smell of warm grass and the sounds of bees and sirens, the taste of blood and a dragging weariness in his limbs – and Arthur.

"Mordred was caught. A couple of weeks ago we found out about Xander – that he was coming after you personally."

Arthur paused and Merlin nodded, trying to keep the _why-me_ confusion off his face. He guessed he didn't do as good a job as he thought, because Arthur went on more tentatively, "Gaius thinks it's to do with a unique DNA trait you have – something they can use as a weapon."

"To make people sick?" Merlin said.

"To cause – well, to cause their DNA to mimic yours," Arthur said, with a reluctance that made Merlin suspect he was over-simplifying. One of those _you-probably-won't-believe _details.

"That doesn't make sense, you know," Merlin spoke without thinking. "I'm not sick – why would it matter if people's DNA…" _Oh, wait_. "You mean, it causes mutations or something?" _And I've been given a_ cure…

"Do you…" Arthur spoke cautiously. "Do you remember how upset Freya was when she asked you to perform telekinesis?"

_And I couldn't_. He thought she'd been joking, but she was so sweet and earnest that he tried, idiot though he felt, to bring his water glass to his hand from the bedside table. He drew deeply on his cigarette. "Have you seen me do it?"

Arthur nodded, completely serious. "We think your unique DNA allows for that," he said. "We think before they let you go you were given a shot that blocks that ability."

So that's what was missing. Funny, Merlin thought he'd feel different to discover the big secret. More relief. This was just – _oh, hm, interesting_. "Why would they do that?" he said. "What does it matter to anyone if I can or can't move things with my mind?"

"It seems to be a – rare ability," Arthur said slowly, a strange expression on his face, as though he were trying to control a sorrow or a pain. "It might even be a – valuable ability, to certain people. And the – injection – you were given, a kind of plan B. A fail-safe. An antidote for the poison, though –"

"Gee, thanks," Merlin said bitterly.

"Though that's a terrible analogy," Arthur finished apologetically.

"What can I do?" Merlin said.

Arthur stared at him a moment before a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. "Honestly?" he said. "Stay safe. Get better. Rest and take it easy, whatever helps your mind and memory recover. We have a couple of leads to track down, but there's plenty of people to handle that."

Merlin nodded, inhaling the last of his nicotine, and flipped the butt into the sand bucket.

"Are you coming up to Baltimore today?" Arthur asked.

Merlin considered. The townhouse was home, it felt safe and familiar, Gaius wouldn't push or question him. But maybe… maybe his mind and memory needed to be pushed and questioned, to recover. And with Arthur… he _knew_ his place was with Arthur, though he'd have felt stupid saying it, and couldn't have explained it. In any case, Baltimore was where he'd been held captive. Where they'd took that something from him that Arthur thought was a telekinetic ability, but might have been much more.

There might be memories, in Baltimore. He winced at the thought of just what there might be to remember. But there would also be answers.

"Yeah," he said. "I'll come with you."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin spent Thursday morning in the library on the campus of the University of Baltimore, browsing, reading, meandering about the internet in the computer lab, drinking coffee with a cinnamon roll in the basement café, taking a nap on one of the couches.

By the afternoon, he was tired of Arthur's advice – stay safe, get better, rest and take it easy. It wasn't hard to get into Camelot's system on the library computer, and he clicked through his research on Dr. Spell without any enthusiasm. There was too much information there, and not enough in his mind that he could access, to feel like it did any good. He was wasting his time.

Two girls walked by, complaining about their faculty advisors. Dr. This and Dr. That, with sarcasm. Doctor…Dr. Spell…Andrew – Xander.

_Doctor_, the doctor had said. That meant two doctors in the room, each calling the other by their title. He hacked into Gwaine's copy of the police report, found the address of the clinic, searched it on the map of Baltimore. It wasn't even a mile and a half south of the campus.

On a whim, he combined "Dr. Andrew Spell" with "University of Baltimore", and the search came up with a short list of guest lecture videos. He clicked on the first one listed, an Advanced Biology class, and leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes, trying to breathe and relax.

"_A nucleic acid inhibitor is a type of antibacterial that acts by inhibiting the production of nucleic acids_." Merlin gripped the arms of the computer chair, feeling the snug fit of the padded cuffs, the bed raising him to a near-sitting position. "_There are two major classes: DNA inhibitors and RNA inhibitors_." He smelled antiseptic, heard the monitor beep in time with every beat of his heart, pushing more blood through the tube in his elbow, down to the collection bag hanging by his bed.

He opened his eyes, glaring at the man on the screen, the white lab coat, the salt-and-pepper hair and beard, neatly trimmed, the slightly-rotund but distinguished figure. _Doctor, are we nearly finished? This is a ridiculous conversation_.

_Damn you_, he snarled. _Damn you to hell_.

He hit the button powering the computer off, though the piece of paper taped to the side of the monitor requested that the equipment be left on. He pulled his sweatshirt over his head, leaving the hood up, ducked into the strap of his satchel, and left the library.

Hands in his pockets, he left the campus.

He walked slowly, aware that the blood loss he'd suffered left him weak and occasionally inclined to dizziness. He walked through downtown Baltmore, past high-rise office buildings where everyone dressed like Arthur Drake trying to impress his father as a matter of course, down through blocks where pawn shops rubbed shoulders with laundry-mats. Past signs that advertised bars and clubs _Now Auditioning Professional Dancers._

He paused once before a tattoo parlor to light a cigarette, and found himself studying a beautifully executed dragon, drawn on paper and attached to the window as an advertisement for the quality of ink-work offered. It was a red dragon, rearing up on hind legs to slash with front talons and breathe fire at once. The caption above it read, _Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons_, and below, the joke was continued, _for you are crunchy and good with ketchup_.

Merlin smiled grimly at his reflection in the storefront window, exhaling smoke. His own dragon tattoo, brown and gold, crawling over and down his right shoulder, was every bit as intricate and detailed as this red one. One was enough for anybody – or, maybe two. Maybe a smaller one, but not a red one. White, maybe. Maybe he could talk Arthur into getting the red dragon – dead center of his chest. He wondered what Thomas Drake would have to say about that.

_Do not meddle_… He liked that. His feet began walking again, and he felt stronger than he had since waking up in Arthur's apartment. Recovering. _Whatever_, Arthur said, _helps your mind and memory recover_.

He watched the street signs, then counted the numbers, til he found himself staring across at a medical clinic, small and unassuming, parking lot empty, CLOSED sign legible in the window from across the street.

It sparked nothing in his mind, no feelings, so sensory memories. Checking for traffic, he crossed the street at a jog.

The pavement was marred with potholes, the curb crumbling where cars had missed the intended drive entrance. The corners of the sidewalk were worn away.

Merlin cupped his hands around his face to peer in the smoky glass of the front door. The clinic was dark – no one was there. The lobby was small, the receptionists' desk to the right, plastic chairs and magazines on a coffee table forming a waiting area to the left. Potted plant in the corner.

He followed the sidewalk to the corner of the building. He balanced on the edge of the sidewalk, undecided, then stepped down as a bit of the concrete broke away under his boots. He bent to pick up a chunk half the size of his fist and gripped it, rubbing away grit and particles as he circled the building to the back.

A dumpster. A small access door, the same darkly-tinted glass as at the front. Employee parking. Everything completely innocuous. Nothing familiar to him. No push to the mind and memory, no sense of recovering whatever had been taken from him here.

In his satchel, his phone rang, and he reached to pull it out and answer it.

"Merlin, where are you?" Arthur. "I thought we were going to meet at the library when my last class was over."

"I got tired of the library," Merlin said. "Needed to get out. Get some air."

"Well, where are you?" Arthur repeated.

"I'm fine," Merlin said shortly. "I'll talk to you later." He ended the call as Arthur said his name again, then powered the phone off.

He looked down at the chunk of sidewalk, hefted it in his hand. Then deliberately, and as hard as he could, threw it at – into – through – the glass of the back door.

The sound of smashing glass made him feel guilty – but satisfied at the same time. He approached the door, his boots grinding the shattered slivers still smaller. He reached through the jagged edges of the gaping hole, and twisted back the deadbolts.

Merlin opened the door and entered the clinic. He stood for a moment in the dim back hallway, sniffed at the stale lemon-Lysol smell, ready for a rush of memories. It didn't come.

The door next to him was ajar, and he pushed it open. The clinic's supply room, complete with small necessities-only pharmacy in a high cabinet behind locked glass doors. In the corner, a cooler for temperature-regulated samples or medications. He glanced over them, but the labels meant nothing to him. What did he expect to find, a sign that said, _Emrys strain vaccinations administered here_?

The next door down the hall seemed to be an office of sorts, though there was nothing personal about it – no pictures, no plants, no cartoons tacked to the wall. Probably more than one physician used it, serving or volunteering at the clinic. There was a dry erase board next to the door, ready for scheduling changes or duty rosters or other notes. He uncapped the marker clipped to the top of the board and wrote, _Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons._

He looked into one of the exam rooms, but it was cramped, the paper-covered table flat and unfamiliar. He recalled the police report Gwaine had written, and opened the basement door, kicking down the rubber-tipped doorstop to hold it open.

He descended slowly, ready to turn and rush back to the light and air if it became necessary. The first two rooms were clearly storage – dusty and long-unused. He looked down at the chipped tile floor, wondering why there wasn't a puddle of blood. He rubbed at his chest – _oh, yeah, because I never was stabbed to death._ He prowled down the hall, gripping his satchel strap, and stopped at the end.

_Push and question_, he thought, _here goes nothing_. He opened the door.

There was a hospital bed, padded cuffs dangling. There a monitor, there an IV pole. He crossed to the bed, touched the wide leather restraining belt. Looked up at a projector screen – and frowned. What the hell was something like that doing here?

He took a deep breath, turned, and scooted himself into a sitting position on the bed. He rubbed his arms – yes, free of needles and tubes and tape. The bruise was fading, the tiny cut nigh-invisible on the inside of his elbow. Grace looked at him in disbelief as he thanked her for her attention and care.

_What is the matter with you? Your leave time is officially canceled for the rest of the year if you can't even tell me _when_ you're taking it! _He frowned, sure that Arthur had actually said those words to him at some point.

Any minute now, the door would burst open and his friends would enter to rescue him –

The door burst open. Lights flashed in his eyes, blinding him.

"Hands where we can see 'em! Slowly get off the bed, get down on the floor! Down on the ground, now! Move, dammit!"

Merlin stared at his hallucination, fascinated as one figure split into three, with flashlights and guns. It wasn't Leon, Gwaine, or Percival.

His hallucination grabbed his arms, his shoulders, kicked his feet out from under him, threw him flat on the chipped tile floor, put a knee in the small of his back and twisted his arms behind him.

The cuffs clicked into place. And then he began to fight.


	14. For the Curse to be Lifted

**Chapter 14: For the Curse to be Lifted**

_Don't be too hard on him, Arthur_. He thought of Gwaine's words – again – as he stood quietly in the corner of the Baltimore police captain's office. His feet were planted to keep him from pacing, his hands were clasped, still, in front of him. The picture of confidence and trustworthiness.

And Gwaine, whom he'd once considered to be the most volatile of the knights, calmly and cleverly talking the captain through the charges, explaining just enough and not too much, excusing Merlin as a misunderstood diamond-in-the-rough rather than an uncooperative repeat-offender.

"Resisting arrest?" Gwaine scoffed. "Is that really necessary? He didn't struggle until after the cuffs were on him, and by the admission of the arresting officer, he did more harm to himself than any of them."

Arthur shifted his weight, controlled himself with an effort. Leave it to Merlin to get himself beaten up by both the bad guys _and_ the good guys.

"All right, Kraft, we'll knock that charge off. But 'Breaking and Entering' is going to stick, I'm afraid," the captain responded, a heavyset man in his mid-50's with sad eyes and a contemplative manner.

"The only damage done was to the glass door," Gwaine argued, leaning forward in his chair to stab his forefinger on a stack of papers on the desk for emphasis. "Nothing else broken, nothing else stolen – you can't claim attempted robbery when he had nothing on him, and nothing was even out of place."

"Come on, Kraft," the captain said with a sideways smile. "I know he's your friend, but what else does a teenager break into a medical facility for? Of course he was there to steal meds."

"Can't prove it," Gwaine reminded him with a grin. "Drop the attempted robbery and I'll let you in on a little secret…" The captain pursed his lips pensively, studying Gwaine, then nodded once in agreement. "We're currently investigating a case in cooperation with the NSA, and we had a tip that suggested evidence could be found at this clinic – which was why you found Marvin in the basement instead of the supply room stuffing his pockets full of oxycodone."

"The NSA," the captain repeated, clearly unsure whether he could believe them. "Then this isn't about the missing-persons report on your boy Marvin, or the tip that he was being held in that location?"

"We didn't find him there," Gwaine said guilelessly, spreading his hands. "He returned on his own – we're still looking into the conditions of his disappearance."

"The clinic was released as a crime scene on Monday," the captain continued. "If you're following an investigation, why'd he throw a rock through the glass?"

"I'll be filing my report on this incident first thing tomorrow," Arthur spoke for the first time, employing an attitude of humility as well as regal authority, establishing himself as an equal of this captain, but willing to defer to his jurisdiction. "Our supervisor should be able to corroborate the necessary details." He offered one of Chance's cards to the captain. He was fairly sure he could talk the NSA agent into cooperating, and would worry about what information he'd have to give Chance in return later.

The captain accepted the card, drumming his fingers. "It'll be up to the owners of the clinic whether or not to drop the B 'n' E charges," he remarked.

"We are prepared to pay for the damages," Arthur said.

Gwaine turned in his seat, his eyes glinting devilishly, and murmured, "You gonna make him polish everyone's boots, then?"

Arthur kept his straight face with an effort, recognizing Gwaine's attempt to restore him to good humor. "Are you volunteering to help him?" he muttered back.

The captain made his decision. "We'll release him into your custody," he said. "Make sure he shows up for any future court dates necessary? Oh, and next time? Get a damn search warrant first."

"Yes, sir," Gwaine said, grinning with relief as he tood and shook the captain's hand. "Will do. Thank you, sir."

Arthur shook the captain's hand as well, and waited by the heavy door to the holding cells while Gwaine went to sign for Merlin's personal effects. Five minutes later, another officer opened the door from the inside, leading Merlin out. Arthur breathed more freely, seeing his friend upright and conscious and walking, with no obvious injuries or bruising.

"You're free to go," the officer told Merlin, and gestured at Arthur.

Merlin looked at him for a moment without any expression whatsoever, then broke into the wide apologetic grin Arthur associated with his clumsy servant tripping on a hunt or dropping something noisy at an affair of state, or even – _getting hiccups when Arthur was trying to prepare for a life-or-death quest._

"Are you all right?" Arthur said immediately.

Merlin shrugged. "Couple bruises," he said.

"You _idiot_," Arthur growled, affection warring with exasperation. "Is this your idea of staying safe and getting better? Resting and taking it easy? Let's go, before you get into more trouble."

Gwaine repeated, "Don't be too hard on him," as they reached the car, but Merlin was smirking as if he didn't mind the mild abuse Arthur inflicted on him in the form of occasional insults, and one or two shoulder-pushes and head-smacks.

They buckled their safety belts, Merlin with his long legs folded up in the cramped space of the back seat. "What is the matter with you?" Arthur exclaimed.

"Your leave time is officially canceled for the rest of the year if you can't even tell me _when_ you're taking it," Merlin said.

Arthur froze with the keys dangling from his fingers.

"What's the matter?" Gwaine asked.

Arthur said numbly, "I said that. I left you that message on your voicemail a week ago Monday. Before we knew –" He and Gwaine both turned to look at Merlin, whose smirk was gone. One hand rubbed at the center of his chest, as his eyes flicked from Arthur to Gwaine and back again. "Gaius said, when they were rearranging your memories, they might have used pictures or voice recordings from your phone," Arthur said. "Damn, Merlin – I'm _sorry_."

Merlin shrugged. "It's not your fault," he said. But when he turned to gaze absently out the car window, Arthur could see that his brows were down and his jaw tight.

Arthur started the car, headed for the apartment in Druid Heights, where Gwaine's dark green pickup waited.

"Did you find anything interesting at the clinic?" Gwaine asked.

There was a long silence, in which Arthur's apprehension grew. He'd wondered exactly what it would take to put Merlin right back where he'd started when they'd met in June, and wanted very much never to know.

"Nothing, really," Merlin said. "Do you need confirmation? That was where I was?"

"Do you remember?" Arthur said softly.

"A little. Enough. I remember Grace."

Arthur exchanged a surprised look with Gwaine, who twisted around in the front passenger seat again. "You mean Grace Clayton, the nurse who gave Longley his shot of the Emrys strain?"

Merlin's voice held bitter amusement. "Unless there are two nurses named Grace involved in this case."

"Gee-damn," Gwaine said blankly. "Well, that'll probably be enough to put out a wanted-for-questioning bulletin on her."

More to add to the update he owed Chance, too, Arthur thought.

Merlin said softly, "How long until we can start to harvest the white blood cells?"

Arthur shuddered as he pulled into the neighborhood. "What the hell, Merlin?" he said, disturbed.

"The voice," Merlin said, without expression. Arthur parked, looked back at his friend, who was still gazing out the side window into the darkness of the night. "Two doctors. One was a woman, and one - guest lecture, Advanced Biology, four-twelve-two thousand one, University of Baltimore. Dr. Andrew Spell."

"Is Xander," Gwaine finished. "And he was there? Well, now we know for sure."

Arthur reached to open the door. "We have a lot to do tomorrow. Gwaine, you and Leon focus on finding Grace Clayton. We may have come up with nothing on Xander's current location, but she probably hasn't the time or resources to disappear like Dr. Spell. Find out anything you can about the clinic, too, now we know there's that link."

"Not a problem," Gwaine said. "I don't envy you having to deal with Chance – think I'd take research over that any day."

Gwaine took off in the pickup as Merlin climbed slowly from the Mustang. Arthur slammed the door, but neither of them made any move to walk down the sidewalk to enter the apartment.

"You know what you did was stupid, right?" Arthur said. Merlin nodded, fiddling with the strap of the satchel that crossed his chest. "Why didn't you call me?" One phone call he'd been given after his arrest, and it had been to Gwaine.

"I knew you'd be mad," Merlin said softly. "I didn't want to disappoint you."

Gaius had said the same thing about Merlin. "I'm –" Arthur shook his head. He was furious with Xander, but Merlin… He knew better than to throw a rock through a window, but Arthur understood, at least enough. And Merlin didn't need Arthur to scold him like a naughty child. "What, are you afraid I'm going to put you in the stocks?"

A small smile resulted. "Wasn't that where you just got me out of?" he joked.

Arthur shook his head. "In the future, Merlin, please think a little less about my feelings or reactions, and a little more about your own safety, hm?"

Merlin shrugged and kicked the heel of his boot against the rear tire. His breath was visible in the cold night air as he said, "You're already disappointed, though, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?" Arthur said, confused. When had he said –

"This thing they took from me." Merlin darted a glance up at him under the shaggy fringe of black hair, his eyes dark under the shadows cast by the streetlight. "What they cured – telekinesis, whatever. It was important to you, wasn't it? To all of you?"

"It was part of who you were – who you are, I mean," Arthur amended. Why did he suddenly feel like he was walking on thin ice?

"I'm not much good to you without it, am I?" Merlin said, crossing his arms over his chest, his face once again lost in the shadow of the hood of his sweatshirt.

Arthur went around to step up on the back bumper of the Mustang, seat himself on the trunk, at right angles to Merlin, though their shoulders were almost touching. "Gaius is working on figuring out whether that – damn _cure_ – is permanent," he said. "He hopes to be able to reverse it, somehow, maybe give you the injection that was given to Adam Longley, if we can find out how they did that, too."

"What if…" Merlin kicked the tire, shifted, glanced over his shoulder, then lifted his head to stare into the dark toward the noise of the busier street a block down. "What if – I don't want it back?"

Arthur was at a complete loss for words. _I'm a sorcerer – I have magic – I use it for you, only for you_ – hundreds of times, maybe, Merlin's magic had meant the difference between life and death. Or at least injury, capture, whatever. And now he doesn't want it? _He doesn't remember_, Arthur told himself. If he remembered _being_ Merlin, Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth… Arthur reflected that a loss of such magnitude might cause physical pain. Or – insanity.

What if, he suddenly wondered, Merlin was subconsciously suppressing his own memories, again? If his sense of self was so tied up with the magic that the shot itself had caused the amnesia?

"Why?" he managed. "Why not?"

Merlin shifted uncomfortably again, his face still hidden from Arthur by the edge of his hood. "I remember – I mean, I know my head's not screwed on straight right now, and what I remember – isn't stuck together properly, but –" he hesitated. "This telekinetic ability – I've had to hide it, haven't I? I've had to lie about it? People called me a freak, a monster… I mean, hell, I've just been abducted and – and – _vampirized_. Because of that. I want to be – _ordinary_. I want to be _normal_. I just want to be _me_."

Arthur slung his arm over Merlin's shoulder. His throat was dry and his chest was tight. "No one is ever going to make you do something you don't want to," he said. _But if he doesn't, will he ever remember that he's Merlin?_ his mind screamed. _Will he ever remember that I'm Arthur?_

Maybe not. He remembered Gaius saying, _If our Merlin never regains those memories, I believe some part of him will miss them and mourn them. His pain stems from the suppression of those memories... He will never feel whole, in acceptance of who he is, without the joining of those two lives…_ But without the magic pushing at him, struggling to emerge, what then?

"I won't be any good to you without it," Merlin said. His shoulders were tense, but he didn't throw off Arthur's arm.

"Merlin," Arthur said. _Merlin, you _idiot, he wanted to be able to say. "We're not friends because of what you can _do_ for me. I mean, I didn't even know you had – that ability, for years."

"We haven't _known_ each other for years," Merlin scoffed. He glanced over at Arthur, so swiftly he couldn't catch his friends' expression. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, Merlin," Arthur said. For a moment Merlin didn't answer, and Arthur just sat on the trunk of the car in the freezing late-October weather, looking up at the stars in the night sky.

Then Merlin said, "I mean, I remember when I met you, I thought what a – jerk you were, the boss' son… Did I –" Merlin paused, sounding confused. "Did I try to hit you? Or did you hit me?"

"That depends, Merlin," Arthur said. "We've met more than once."

Merlin said, "Do you know how insane that sounds?" Arthur had to chuckle, though it hurt something in his chest. Then Merlin said, "Why _are_ we friends? Is it -"

"It's not the telekinesis that I – that I like about you." Arthur stumbled over the words, feeling awkward, but hoping Merlin would give him a wide mischievous grin and say like Sally Fields, _you like me, you really like me_! And he could say, _shut up, _Mer_lin_.

"Gaius doesn't even know if he can do anything about it," Merlin said, turning to him, then. Arthur shook his head, let his arm drop. "Cross that bridge when we come to it, then."

"Yeah," Arthur said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

On Friday, Arthur left Baltimore right after his last class, and made it to his meeting at the NSA building with Gibson Chance at quarter to five.

As they passed the evergreen trees on their way inside, Merlin shivered and glanced over his shoulder, but said nothing. Neither did Arthur, but he hung his hand over Merlin's shoulder for a moment for friendship's sake.

Once inside, they left Merlin with one of the computer analysts, a woman who reminded Arthur of Mary, his father's personal assistant, if she ever had decided to consume a whole pot of coffee, at once and by herself.

"Glad to see he's back," Chance said as they settled into their chairs. "Let's start at the beginning."

"Xander is Dr. Andrew Spell," Arthur said. "Former employee of Camelot Laboratories – we could get no details on the circumstances of his break with the company, but presume it to be his motivating factor in targeting Camelot and my father. Also, we have no information on his current whereabouts."

Chance nodded, sitting back in his chair. "What do you have?" he said.

"We have a pretty good idea that he's planning to use a biological weapon of his own making, sooner rather than later," Arthur said. "Dr. Sagesse of Camelot Laboratories identified a substance in the blood-work of Adam Longley, the navel instructor in Annapolis, which probably led to his death."

"Substance," Chance said. "Like ricin? Anthrax?"

"No, something we feel he's developed on his own," Arthur said.

"How volatile is it? What are the symptoms? How ready might he be for an attack?"

"Not very, and we're not sure," Arthur said cautiously. "I'm sorry I can't be any more specific. There are details about his goals we're not clear about, but it is my guess that a widespread and fatal epidemic is not his desire. The strain that Dr. Sagesse has identified causes mutation of sorts in the DNA – it was the trauma from this result that caused Longley to abandon his life, so that his cause of death was stress and exposure."

"So the disease has more mental effects than physical," Chance said. "Like a mass hallucination, or something?"

"Possibly," Arthur allowed. It was the closest he could come to the truth with the agent. "In any case, we tracked the nurse who administered the injection to Longley to a free weekend clinic in Baltimore, and have it on good authority that Dr. Spell has been at the clinic also."

"Good authority," Chance said, an invitation to elaborate.

"When Merlin was abducted a week and a half ago, that's where he was held," Arthur said. "He identified both Grace Clayton, the RN, and Dr. Spell as having been present."

"I received a call from Baltimore police department today," Chance said gravely. "Is this the same clinic that Marvin broke into last night?"

"Yes," Arthur said apologetically. "He believed he could obtain further information at the site, and as far as the charges go, believe me, he has already been raked across the coals." And _that_, Arthur thought grimly, was an understatement, though it had not been done by Merlin's friends.

"They've agreed to amend the allegations to a misdemeanor charge," Chance said. "What, if anything, does Sergeant Major Hyden have to do with this?"

"We believe he was part of a side venture meant to discredit Merlin, as our computer expert, and in revenge for his part in preventing the June attack," Arthur said, "and that was the motivation behind Merlin's abduction as well, whether Hyden was involved or not."

Chance nodded, absorbing the information. "The abduction was intended to render Marvin's information, testimony, and evidence useless, wasn't it," he said. "Tell me, do you still trust Marvin's word, after all that has happened?"

"Yes," Arthur said.

"Would it hold up in court?"

Arthur repressed a shudder, and tried to consider such a scenario dispassionately. "Probably not today," he said honestly. "But given time, yes. He's still recovering from the effects of his captivity."

"Yes, that's understandable," Chance said. He tapped his fingers on his desk idly, then commented, "Royce Frederick is under house arrest, pending investigation into certain recent and sizeable deposits into certain of his accounts."

Arthur nodded, understanding that Chance considered them even. He'd supported them with the Baltimore PD to make up for Frederick's involvement with the shooting incident at Fort Bragg.

"Where are you going from here?" the agent asked. "What do you need from us?"

"Grace Clayton is our best lead right now," Arthur said. "We have a P.O. box address and we're looking into her personal history as well as anything we can find out about the clinic itself."

"Perhaps we could use agency resources to stake out the post office box," Chance offered.

"Yes, thank you," Arthur said, relieved that he wouldn't have to ask Gwaine to camp out at the location until Grace showed up. He stood as the older agent did, and shook his hand.

"Let us know any further developments," Chance requested, "and we'll keep you apprised of any relevant information that may come into our hands as well."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was quiet after the meeting at the NSA building. They drove back down to Alexandria, and Arthur left him with Gaius at the townhouse Saturday and Sunday morning, instinctively feeling that his friend needed some time alone, to think. The decision he faced, Arthur knew, was a helluva lot more important than the teenager realized, but the last thing Arthur wanted at this point was for Merlin to sacrifice his desires and his yearning for a "normal" life because he knew Arthur wanted – _needed_ -him to.

The friendship would last, Arthur was sure of that. If he was honest with himself, he knew he would accept greedily whatever Merlin found himself able to offer – even if it didn't include magic and shared memories.

And if Merlin chose to try to regain his magic – maybe the first step toward accepting his identity as a legendary sorcerer, or maybe even _because_ he remembered their life of 1500 years ago – he wanted his friend to do so freely and willingly, not dutifully or grudgingly.

Arthur and Gaius had a polite argument over where to have company dinner, Sunday night. The Drake mansion, Arthur maintained, was better equipped to serve nine people, kitchen and dining room both, than the two-bedroom townhouse was.

"Let's put it to a vote," Gaius suggested innocently at last, and Arthur gave in. Leon would be comfortable at his father's house, and maybe Gaius himself. It might not matter one way or another to Gwaine or Percival and Kathryn, or even Freya, and Gwen of course would make every effort to be cordial to her future father-in-law who silently and disapprovingly glowered, but everyone would think of Merlin, possibly the only employee of Camelot that the CEO actually hated.

"All right," Arthur sighed. "We'll cram in here."

Gwen took the decisions about the menu right out of Gaius' hands, with promised aid from Kathryn and Freya, and spent hours in Gaius' kitchen before the guests began arriving, cleaning and preparing vegetables, marinating the steaks.

"We should do this again at Thanksgiving," Gwen said.

Arthur kept his eye on Merlin, sprawled on the couch with Freya tucked in next to him absently toying with the hair on the nape of Merlin's neck, watching Leon add to the virtual citadel of Camelot on MineCraft. Arthur was looking for two things – any indication that the teenager was feeling overwhelmed, stifled, confused, and any tiny hint that _his_ Merlin might be trying to return.

Once, Arthur heard Merlin say to Leon, "Is this the griffon stair?"

"No, that's on the other side," Leon answered.

The knights had all been warned not to make any direct references, ask questions of Merlin outright, or make a big deal of anything he might say referencing his memories. Arthur had the impression that his friend's memory was something like an optical illusion – if you looked for it, it wasn't there, but if you gave it a careless sideways glance, the most extraordinary things might emerge.

Anyone recovering from amnesia could be expected to experience some confusion, some incredulity when faced with information about themselves that they were not immediately inclined to believe, Gaius had explained to Arthur in a moment when they found themselves alone, but Merlin had to deal with two lifetime's worth of memories, and the world-famous identity of a long-dead sorcerer. On top of his subjection to medication and therapy as an adolescent, and what amounted to psychological torture, treading carefully around his three actual attempts to kill himself, and the false-persuasion of a fourth.

The doorbell rang, and Arthur answered it, greeting Percival and Kathryn, the last to arrive, as they lived the furthest away. "Hello, everyone!" Kathryn called, carrying a casserole dish in an insulating container. In the closer corner of the dining room, Gwaine handed Percival a beer from the cooler, and Gwen rounded the kitchen peninsula to accept the covered dish.

Amid the other greetings, Merlin, with his eyes still on the towers of Camelot on Leon's game onscreen, said clearly, "Congratulations."

"What do you mean?" Kathryn said in cheery confusion, gradually catching the attention of the others.

Merlin looked up, taking note of the many pairs of eyes focused on him. "Congratulations," he repeated, frowning a little but giving a half-wattage version of his wide grin.

"For what, mate?" Gwaine said, half to Merlin and half to Percival.

For a moment no one spoke, then Merlin said, "_You_ know, for the new addition to your house."

"New addition?" Leon said, turning from his game. "I thought you lived on Fort Meade? You can't make additions to on-post housing, can you?"

Merlin looked from one person to the next, clearly believing that he was being played a joke on. "Come on," he said. "You know, 'we're enlarging our house by two feet'?"

"Two feet?" Arthur said blankly. That made absolutely no sense, until Gwen squealed and darted from the kitchen to throw her arms around Kathryn.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded. "Well, I mean, it is your secret to keep after all – you can tell whoever you want to, obviously – but _Merlin_, really?"

Kathryn accepted the hug with a stunned expression on her face. Percival, with Gwaine glancing at him uncertainly, looked a bit shell-shocked himself.

"We haven't told anyone," Kathryn said to Gwen, but in the silence of the room, everyone heard. "I only took the pregnancy test this morning."

"Positive?" Gwen said, smiling hugely and squeezing the taller brunette again.

Leon pushed up from the couch to join Gwaine in simultaneously congratulating and teasing the big knight on his impending fatherhood. No one said the obvious, how did Merlin know?

The teenager watched them all with a look of faint disbelief – Freya and Gwen laughing and questioning Kathryn, Gaius looking on with an air of benign grand-fatherliness, the knights at the cooler toasting a red-faced Percival. He looked at Arthur and cocked his head, as if to ask, _truly no one knew?_ Or maybe to ask, _how did I know? _

"Merlin!" Gwaine called to him then, beckoning him to join them, opening a bottle of beer for him as well. "Get your ass over here – let's celebrate properly!"

Arthur turned to Gaius, catching his eye, questioning him with a look, but the old physician merely raised his eyebrows in a shrug.

The spontaneous hilarity was interrupted by the sound of the oven timer going off, and the chaos that came from trying to serve a sit-down meal to nine people when the dining table sat only six only heightened the almost festive air.

In the crush, Leon turned to Arthur and said, "I heard you met with Agent Chance today, how did that –"

"No!" Gwen cried, waving a oven mitt at them. "No talking about work tonight!"

They finally sorted themselves out, Gwaine and Leon perching on the bar stools at the kitchen peninsula, turned sideways to remain part of the conversation. Arthur, insisting that everyone else take a seat at the table, held his plate and leaned against the wall by the refrigerator. He ate quietly, watching Merlin watch all of them, soaking up the camaraderie and merriment like a dry sponge, though he didn't participate much. His expression betrayed a hesitant longing, as if he couldn't quite believe himself among this many friends and included in the easy fun. The life, and the love, and the teasing acceptance of each other.

Arthur couldn't help but remember certain similar circumstances, around campfires, maybe, when the knights were talking, laughing, joking – and he and Merlin sat apart, quietly discussing whatever serious decision they faced, whatever dangerous quest they'd undertaken.

In the middle of the crowd of his best friends, his _family_, Arthur was suddenly damn lonely.


	15. Having Magic

**A/N: Okay, it took me a little longer to write this, and the chapter ended up being longer than I anticipated, also… hope it doesn't feel rushed. I could have split it into two, I suppose…hm.**

**Chapter 15: Having Magic**

Merlin paced on the sidewalk outside Camelot Technologies headquarters building, alternately blowing on his fingers to warm them, and stuffing them deep in his pockets. The sun was bright but the wind was downright cold, and if he paced inside, there would be people to stare and gossip. Standing still was out of the question, and sitting unthinkable.

He could blame it on the caffeine, the extra two cups of coffee he'd had with his toast that morning before he and Gaius drove to the lab.

_Monday, Monday_, he thought. Or maybe, _Just another manic Monday_…

But if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was nervous. Waiting for Arthur. Nervously waiting for Arthur.

Sunday night he'd dreamed of his parents. Dreamed of coming down the hall in his childhood apartment home, peeking around the corner to see his mother on the phone - late at night, as it was early in the morning in the Middle East. He watched her quickly wipe a tear away and smile bravely, as though his father could see her.

Somehow he understood his mother's courage, even at that young age – uncomplaining about the deployment, the separation, the danger and uncertainty. His father had been a soldier when his parents met, he knew, and his mother had chosen to love his father in spite of the pain she might endure. Loving him enough to give as much as she could for as long as they had together.

In his dream his mother had turned, noticed him out of bed, beckoned him forward. _Your dad wants to talk to you_, she said.

He'd climbed into his mother's lap, feeling her love for him also, her self-sacrificing generosity, holding the phone to his ear expectantly.

_Are you there, dad_? he said. And then he was on Gaius' couch, a high school graduate, with Freya beside him, loving and supportive. _Are you there, dad_?

_Dead or alive_, his father answered, _real or imagined, past or present_.

_I'm lost_, he said, feeling the phone in his hand as he gripped it tightly. _Or – something is lost. Something important._

_You cannot lose what you are_, his father said, calm and reassuring.

_How do I find myself again?_ The connection had a strange resonance, a fault that seemed to echo his words after he'd spoken them. He had no sense of deciding what to say, but almost as if the whole conversation came from somewhere else.

_Believe, Merlin_, his father answered, warm amusement coming through the phone to wrap around Merlin the way he remembered his father's arms doing when he was small. _Believe what your heart knows to be true… rest, and soon you shall awaken into the light_…

Merlin had opened his eyes to the sound of his radio alarm. _To sail on a dream on a crystal clear ocean, to ride on the crest of a wild raging storm…_ There was no memory of making a decision, objectively weighing pro's and con's. _To work in the service of life and the living in search of the answers to questions unknown_… But he knew what he'd tell Arthur. _To be part of the movement and part of the growing, part of beginning to understand…_

Not even Gaius knew about his reservations, reassuring him that his research would eventually reach a solution to restore Merlin's abilities.

Merlin began to whistle the song he'd woken up to softly through his teeth as he paced. _To be true as the tide and free as a wind swell, joyful and loving in letting it be…_

He heard the particular thrum of Arthur's Mustang as it turned from the road to the private drive of Camelot Technologies, and watched Arthur pull into the parking lot. _Aye, Calypso, the places you've been to, the things that you've shown us, the stories you tell_… He scuffed through the weekend's worth of fallen leaves on the lawn, as Arthur parked and got out of the car to wait for him.

_Aye, Calypso, I sing to your spirit, the men who have served you so long and so well… _

"What is it?" Arthur said.

"I wanted to tell you," Merlin said, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I wanted to explain." Arthur nodded calmly, and Merlin instinctively reached for some of that support and stability. "You'd – you'd accept me either way - with or without, wouldn't you?" Merlin didn't wait for an answer – he knew it already – but plunged ahead. "I think – a lot of soldiers, they sacrifice, going into battle where they could die, so that – others don't have to, because they have abilities and training -"

Arthur had a whimsical smile of memory on his face, which made Merlin pause for a moment, til his friend said, "Go on."

"Someone like you," Merlin said, "with your father's name and money and power – if you went to live in some tiny town in Iowa and run a hardware store or something – it wouldn't be _right_. It wouldn't be _you_. I know I'm not making much sense. Just – 'With great power comes great responsibility' – that's cliché, I know, but it's – right. If I have a chance to help, an – ability, whether it's a gift or a curse – I can't _not_." Merlin was shaking by the time he finished, but with cold or with emotion, he wasn't sure.

"Everybody at Gaius' last night – our friends," he went on. "And – the baby coming. And – other babies we don't even know. I sound stupid, don't I? What I'm trying to say is, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get back whatever ability might help me help other people. Now please tell me _you're an idiot shut up Merlin_."

Arthur smiled. "You don't sound stupid, Merlin," he told him. "You could have done a better job organizing that speech, but – no, you're not an idiot. You're one of the bravest men I've ever met. And I'm proud to call you my friend."

He punched Merlin's arm lightly, and Merlin found himself glad Arthur hadn't decided on a more personal gesture of affection, having to quick wipe his eyes on his sleeve as it was. Arthur led the way to the door.

"Scares the hell out of me," Merlin confessed. "Not – being friends with you, though I have to say, I'm still a little confused about that – but the whole idea of –"

"Magic?" Arthur suggested, glancing over his shoulder at him. _Telekinesis – magic? Well, in a way_, he supposed, and nodded. "I used to think that too," Arthur told him. "But I happen to agree with your cliché also – with great power comes great responsibility. And I don't know anyone else that I'd trust more with that power than you, Merlin."

Merlin shivered as they entered the warmth of the building, and crossed the rising-sun logo on the lobby floor. Having nothing to offer meant no one expected anything, and there was no one to let down. But if Gaius could reintroduce the Emrys strain to his body, and if Arthur trusted him to do the right thing – he guessed he could manage to shoulder that responsibility.

Arthur didn't mention his decision again, which he was grateful for. Leon and Gwaine were both present in the office the four of them shared when he trailed Arthur in, and he sat down at his computer system, but today left his iPod in his satchel.

"What bothers me," Leon began, sitting back in his chair and addressing the room at large, "is what Xander intends to _do_ with the Emrys strain."

"Gaius and I have theorized two possibilities," Arthur answered. "First, he could use it in a terrorist-style attack to infect as many people as possible in a short amount of time."

Gwaine said, "For what purpose?"

"Imagine two thousand people suddenly with the capabilities of Merlin's – abilities," Arthur said, "moving things and turning electronics on and off, with very little control – or with growing control."

The other two looked at Merlin for his reaction. He tried to keep his face calm, but wondered if maybe it wasn't such a bad thing – at least he wouldn't be alone or so different anymore. But then, why would he wish these complexities on someone who didn't have a choice? He didn't say anything; he could tell they weren't completely comfortable discussing this right in front of him, but he _was_ part of it, and couldn't hide from that.

"Pretty chaotic," Leon agreed. "And here is Dr. Spell, with a cure for the –"

"You can say it," Merlin said. "Virus? disease?" Gwaine grinned at him in recognition of the attempt at humor.

"Okay, with a cure," Arthur said. "Dr. Spell gets to be the hero of the hour, and at the same time rub my father's nose in the fact that he was wrong to let him go."

"What's the second theory?" Leon asked.

"What if you give the injection to someone like Hyden or Frederick?" Arthur asked. "Someone in a position of trust or authority, with access to sensitive materials, military or government, but who's willing to sell out. Think of the damage that could be done by someone like that, who could also move things or manipulate electronics. What if the CIA got a hold of it? Or what if Xander sold it internationally?"

"Gaius still doesn't know how much of it he could have made, does he?" Gwaine said.

Arthur shook his head. "We don't know if the one sample is equal to one Adam Longley, or whether it could have affected several people."

"But Longley isn't exactly good advertising, if Xander wants to cash in," Gwaine argued. "A one-man test that ended with the guy dead?"

Merlin cleared his throat, closing his eyes. The words bubbled up in his throat, tasting of acid and fear, but he said them anyway. "Longley was surely an exception. We - can't risk that again. We should go ahead with… phase two and… the public performance."

There was silence. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid of what expressions he would see. He leaned his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples.

"_Hell_, Merlin," Gwaine whispered.

"Public performance," Leon said thoughtfully, kindly trying to redirect the attention away from Merlin's embarrassment.

Merlin glanced at Arthur, who had his forehead resting in his hand, his face mostly hidden from them. His voice was rough as he spoke to them without moving his hand, "We need to find out, then, what he might intend to do – where, when, how…"

No one said anything further. Leon and Gwaine turned back to their computer monitors. Arthur didn't drop his hand, and Merlin could see that his jaw was tight. He turned to his own computer system, beginning to click idly through his research history. He paused at the online newspaper articles he'd been reading the previous week. There was a detail he noticed, a coincidence, and he clicked past, going instead to Andrew Spell's published works, searching for specific local places Xander might have mentioned.

It might not be a coincidence. He should at least mention it to Arthur – but if he was wrong, they might waste time and effort, maybe even miss other important evidence.

"Arthur," he said, his throat dry.

Arthur dropped his hand and looked at him. "Have you got something?" he asked.

"Just a – funny feeling," he said, and heard in his mind his friend's voice saying, _That's good enough for me_. Is it really, he wondered, and – well, it's about time. "The marathon they're running on Saturday in Baltimore – the route goes right past that clinic."

All three of the older men – the master's student, the former police officer, the former bodyguard for the CEO – contemplated his left-field suggestion seriously.

"If you think about _how_," Arthur said slowly, "you start to wonder, was he going to substitute it for flu shots, or something –"

"Something bigger and more dramatic?" Gwaine said.

Leon added, "I find myself remembering that this is the man willing to use HMX missiles on stolen drones."

"Explosives?" Arthur said. "During the marathon? You get all the mass confusion and damage of a terrorist attack – and a nice neat quiet clinic ready at hand to provide first aid and supplies."

They were all silent for a moment. Then Arthur said, "Leon could you and Percival scout out the marathon route?" Leon nodded, pulling out his phone as he stood and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. "Gwaine, I'm going to need you to talk to the Baltimore PD, see if changing the route is an option – secretly, last-minute, whatever, or at the very least, increase security. We want to find Xander and his – caseful of syringes, or whatever – but more importantly, we want to stop whatever he's planning, be it this or something else."

A caseful of syringes. Merlin felt a chill run down his spine, picturing such a thing, sitting on the curb across the street from the clinic, as he rolled up his sleeve and Gaius prepared to give him the injection. It was a horrible thought, and yet – he would do it.

"Merlin," Arthur said, "do you mind running down a list of everyone who's signed up for the marathon? If worst comes to worst, we'll need to have a back-up plan, let the NSA or CDC quarantine people and administer the cure."

Merlin nodded and turned back to his computer. After a moment he realized that Arthur had delegated a task to each of them according to their abilities or specialties – and that he had been included. He wasn't completely useless without his telekinesis, after all.

Across the room behind him, Arthur turned on his radio and exclaimed as a sappy love song poured forth, instead of the usual harder rock he listened to. _So many questions still left unanswered… So much I've never broken through_… "What in _the_ hell?" Arthur said in a tone of amusement and exasperation.

"Not my fault," Merlin said immediately without turning_. I don't know much_, the duet crooned, _but I know I love you_… "I never touched it. And Leon knows better – you should blame Gwaine."

_That may be all I need to know…_

"Ye gods, Merlin, silence is probably better than this," Arthur complained. It sounded like he was trying to keep from laughing.

"So turn it off, then," Merlin said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke on Wednesday morning with a splitting headache, as his clock radio drawled out an old country tune_, Imagine a world where no music was playing…_.

"Imagine that," he groaned, and tried to untangle his hands from the sheets to throw his pillow at the clock. _Then you've seen a picture of me without you_… His right hand stuck to the material for some reason, and he winced as he yanked it off, and flung the pillow, but by some miracle the alarm quit.

He stumbled into the bathroom, feeling for the light. What had he been dreaming? To clutch his bedding so tightly that his hand was sore the next morning. Bright light flooded the room, and Merlin blinked down at blood-smeared hands.

"What the hell?" he said stupidly, flexing his fingers. A scab over the middle knuckle cracked and began to ooze. Merlin reached for the faucet and paused. A sliver of shiny silver about the size of his thumbnail glinted in the basin – he picked it up gingerly. The triangular piece reflected the mirror – and his eyes went to the lower left corner, where just such a piece was missing.

Frowning, Merlin laid the tiny broken corner of the mirror next to the faucet and turned the water on, washing the dried blood carefully off his hand. He awkwardly changed his pajama pants for a pair of dark jeans, but when he'd peeled off his white t-shirt, he paused to examine the tattoo crawling over and down his shoulder. It was motionless on his skin – as it always was. What did he expect?

"_What_?" he said, and for an instant his image seemed about to punch the glass. He straightened his fingers – if he'd done that, there would be glass everywhere. He looked at the tiny piece again, suddenly worried that somehow he'd tried to cut himself in his sleep – but why the _outside_ of his fist? – but it was clean.

"Merlin!" Gaius called from the foot of the stairs, distracting him. "Arthur is waiting for you!"

He left the bathroom to open the door of his bedroom and call back, "I'm coming!" Why in hell did his mind automatically correct the old man's words to give the boss' son a title? _Prince Arthur is waiting_…

He yanked on a charcoal-gray sweater, and bundled up the sheets from his bed, glad they were a navy color and would not show the stain. He thudded hurriedly down the stairs, only just saving himself from tripping at the bottom.

Gaius and Arthur were seated at the table, leaning forward over cups of coffee. Merlin turned to open the door of the laundry nook, stuff his sheets into the machine, add detergent and twist the knob to start the washing cycle. He banged the lid shut and closed the door, and as he approached the main rooms of the townhouse, he heard Gaius say, "Well, you know, sire, it usually takes several rounds of treatment to send it into remission."

Arthur interrupted, "What happened to you?" as Merlin came around the corner.

"_I_ don't know," Merlin said. "It was like this when I woke up. No, Gaius, it's fine, I just need a band-aid, or maybe two –"

"Did you break something upstairs?" Gaius demanded, before retrieving the small blue first-aid case from the guest bath under the stairs.

"No, I mean, well – the mirror is chipped in the bathroom," Merlin said as his grandfather examined his hand. The old man raised an eyebrow and Merlin protested, "It wasn't me, I swear!"

Gaius unwrapped the sticky bandage, applying antibiotic ointment. "What, did you have a nightmare?" Arthur asked. "If it's going to be too much for you to go to Fort Meade today…"

"No, it's fine," Merlin said immediately. There was a shadow of the apprehension that had flooded him Tuesday night, when Arthur had called to announce that the NSA had arrested Grace Clayton at the post office, and had invited Arthur to witness the questioning, if he desired. But it was only a shadow, this morning, and they needed him to make a positive identification.

"Did you have nightmares?" Gaius questioned more closely, snapping the lid shut on the kit.

Merlin went to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. "No, just – stupid dreams," he said. "I was having this – weird conversation with –" He broke off as Gaius entered the kitchen to pull a frozen breakfast sandwich from the freezer.

"With who?" Arthur said.

Merlin snorted. "With my tattoo. Stupid, isn't it?" He frowned, holding the stirring spoon motionless in his mug. He'd said, to his own shoulder, _how small you are for such a great destiny._ No, that was stupid – tattoos didn't have destinies.

Gaius didn't comment, crinkling plastic wrap and setting the microwave. Arthur gave him a strange smile and shook his head. "Merlin, that is so _wrong_," he said.

"I know, right?" he answered. _There is no wrong or right, only what is and what isn't. _ "Let's go," Merlin said abruptly, brightly.

"Take this with you," his grandfather instructed, handing him the biscuit hot from the microwave, ham and egg and cheese. For a moment Merlin hesitated, somehow sure that Gaius had other instructions for him, other errands to run, maybe. "Off you go," the old man said.

"Right – yes." Merlin followed Arthur outside to the Mustang, Gaius trailing him.

"You're going straight on to Baltimore this evening, then?" Gaius said. "Oh!" Merlin turned as his grandfather missed his footing, and managed to scoop his arm where the old man could catch it, catch his balance. When they straightened, Gaius was staring at him like he'd grown an extra head. "Thank you, my boy," he said breathlessly.

"That wasn't anything to do with me," he said. "It's a good thing you're light on your feet for an old man."

"Yes, it's lucky I didn't fall right through this railing," Gaius said. His eyebrow was reaching for his hairline, and Merlin thought uncomfortably that there was something he should say. Behind him, Arthur honked the Mustang's horn, and they both jumped.

"I'm sure everything will be fine but I'll call you later," Merlin promised, and joined Arthur in the car as Gaius continued to stare, raising his hand in belated farewell as Arthur began to pull away.

"So did your tattoo have any good advice for you?" Arthur said, reaching to turn the radio on. _Long ago_, the song played, _far away… life was clear… close your eyes_…

"Shut up," Merlin said. "And no – damn cryptic dragon." Stupid dream. _Young warlock,_ a deep voice called in a singsong voice.

He took a deep breath. He felt fully capable of facing the nurse in custody this morning, but it worried him that his confidence and his mental capabilities might not be completely compatible.

_Remember… is a place from long ago/ Remember…filled with everything you know…_ Merlin shut his eyes against the morning sun, streaming bright through the windshield. He was aware that Arthur glanced at him from time to time, but was grateful that his friend chose not to begin a conversation. _Remember… life is just a memory/ Remember… close your eyes and you can see… _ He rather preferred the undemanding silence, and Arthur's presence was enough to bolster him this morning.

"Yellow light," Merlin said suddenly, opening his eyes.

"It's still green, Merlin," Arthur objected, his foot on the gas pedal.

"Yellow light!" Merlin snapped, fear blossoming suddenly in his chest. He threw his arm sideways to grasp Arthur's arm, and the Mustang decelerated abruptly and rapidly. Arthur's eyes were on him. "Eyes forward, dammit!" Merlin shouted, the seatbelt cutting into his shoulder as the Mustang jerked to a stop just short of the intersection – and a moving van roared across in front of them, horn blaring.

Merlin panted, shuddering, then dared to glance at his friend. Arthur stared at him, his expression a mix of fascination, shock, and hope. "Good thing you saw that truck coming," Arthur said. He checked his mirrors, then reversed the car to a more proper position to wait out the red light.

Merlin's headache was back. "Yeah," he said, though not-so-honestly as he might have. He didn't recall seeing the moving van until it was right in front of them.

"You still up for this?" Arthur said, when the light turned green and he pulled forward, cautiously checking for crossing traffic.

"Yeah," Merlin said again.

"Boy, you see your life flash before your eyes," Arthur remarked. He sounded like he was ready to shrug off the jolt of adrenalin from the near-miss.

"What if you see someone else's life flash before your eyes?" Merlin mumbled, pressing on his temples in an effort to calm his headache.

Part of his dream? He remembered – or dreamed – that he was standing in his bathroom, and behind him people crowded into his room, familiar people he did not know, people that weren't there when he turned around to check, people whose names he was afraid he might start to remember, if he watched them too long over his shoulder in the mirror. People who were dressed in period costume, long gowns and peasant homespun and chainmail armor. In the mirror, the brown-and-gold dragon had stirred, had met his eye. _Your_ _gift was given… once and future… so easy to escape destiny_…

Beside him in the car, Arthur cleared his throat. "Whose life did you see, then?" he asked neutrally.

"No one's – only mine – it was a joke," Merlin said. He dug in his satchel for a bottle of Tylenol, swallowed three because two were recommended.

"Have you and I ever been to a renaissance fair?" Merlin said suddenly. That would make sense – that would make the memories and dreams make perfect sense.

"No," Arthur said blankly. "Why do you –" He stopped speaking and seemed to re-focus on driving.

"Maybe when I was a kid, then," Merlin mumbled. Only – how would he be able to picture Arthur in chainmail and a red cape, then? "You know how much it sucks not knowing what's going on in your own head?" he burst out.

Arthur's glance was both amused and sympathetic. "I'm sorry," he said. "I truly hope it gets unscrambled for you soon."

It had been a little nerve-racking to visit the NSA building last Friday afternoon, but Merlin found that this his second time, wasn't so bad. He had no memory of the abduction other than a very cold feeling when he passed one small area on the sidewalk next to a big evergreen, but his sense of calm surprised even him. He wondered if certifiable lunatics ever felt like this, calm and in control. He didn't know if it was a good sign, or a bad one.

He and Arthur were ushered to a small closet-room with no furniture and a thick curtain obscuring one wall. Before the door finished closing behind them, Agent Chance slipped in. "Go ahead," he told someone in the hallway, then shut the door. "Good morning, gentlemen," the agent said, his expression serious as he shook first Arthur's hand, then Merlin's, giving him as always, Merlin thought, particular scrutiny. "You're going to see five women when I draw this curtain, each with a number. I need you to tell me with one-hundred-percent certainty if the woman who was instrumental in holding you hostage is here today. Don't guess. If you can't be completely sure, that's okay, just say so."

Merlin nodded, aware that Chance and Arthur were both watching him carefully. "I'm ready," he said.

Chance drew on a cord next to the curtain and it slid aside, showing a window into the next room, just as small and featureless as the one they stood in. The five women were similar in height, body type, and hairstyle. Three of them had freckles, two acted nervous. Merlin knew which was Grace from his first glance, but studying each woman in turn solidified his choice.

"Number one," he said. "That's Grace."

"Are you sure?" Chance said. "You don't want to take more time? Be one-hundred-percent –"

"Yes, and no," Merlin said. "And I am."

Beside and behind him, he could sense that Arthur didn't know whether to be proud or worried. Chance reached to press a button, and the five women turned to file out a door to their right.

"Now what?" Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't help feeling a little pleased that he hadn't asked whether Merlin's choice was correct.

"You're welcome to remain while we question the suspect, of course," Chance said. "We have a visitor's lounge for your use."

Arthur smiled. "We have all day," he said.

They were shown to a room not unlike the lunchroom at Camelot Technologies. Arthur headed for the vending machines, Merlin wandered between tables and chairs, hands in his pockets, whistling _Send in the Clowns_ between his teeth. _Isn't it bliss? Don't you approve?_ Arthur seated himself, setting a snack bar and a Coke down on the table next to him, as an unspoken invitation to Merlin, who made a slow circuit of the room and ended next to Arthur. _One who keeps tearing around… one who can't move…_

"Too bad you didn't bring your laptop," Arthur said. "We could actually get some work done, then."

Merlin shook his head. "I don't want to use it anymore."

Arthur gave him a keen look. "You mean those creepy messages?" he said. "Hello, Merlin – I look forward to meeting you?" Merlin couldn't restrain a shiver. "Carol said they'd been implanted on your hard drive – a Trojan horse or something."

Merlin said, "Oh." That explained that.

"Probably Hyden did it that week in Bragg," Arthur said. "Don't worry about it – we'll get you a new laptop."

Merlin snorted in self-derision. "I'm something of an easy target, aren't I?" he said. "You might be better off without me."

Arthur shook his head, a sardonic smile twisting his mouth. "It makes for a change," he said cryptically. "I used to be your weak spot."

Merlin picked apart the snack bar, shoving pieces in his mouth, then stood to walk around the room again, drinking the Coke. "Did Leon and Percival ever find out anything on the marathon route?" he asked.

"They had some suspicions," Arthur said. "Some things they wanted to check out. It's a long route, even if we assume they want easy access to the clinic, and we don't want to get too close and scare the quarry off."

Merlin's boot kicked the leg of a chair and he almost fell. Chance came into the room as Merlin was wiping up a few spilled drops of soda. "Grace Clayton refuses to speak," he reported. "But she hasn't asked for a lawyer. I was wondering if you might like to watch from the observation room, maybe you'd have some ideas."

"What do you think, Merlin?" Arthur was already standing, heading for the door. Merlin followed.

This tiny empty closet-room looked into an interrogation room very much like the one where orange-clad Mordred had sat, typing a last message to his master on a bare table. Grace Clayton, in contrast, wore a light blue outfit, cotton, no pockets – reminiscent of Merlin's set of hospital scrubs – no handcuffs. There was a Styrofoam cup on the table in front of her, but her hands were in her lap.

Chance closed the door, reached to turn a knob on a speaker box by the window, and the interrogator's voice came through – "Much easier on yourself, Grace. We know about your mother's illness. We know about the hospital bills, and that nice tidy deposit. Financially speaking, your problems are over, aren't they? Want to explain how that happened so suddenly?" Grace shrugged, didn't raise her eyes from the table. The interrogator tried a new direction. "That line-up you participated in just now? You were positively identified. You're going to be tried as a co-conspirator on charges of kidnapping, torture, attempted murder."

Grace's eyes flicked up to the man across the table, her face conflicted with emotion, then dropped again into a blank mask.

"She minds those charges," Arthur said. "And at the same time, she doesn't trust you guys."

"Why don't you just tell us your side of the story, Grace?" the interrogator said. "Tell us who else is involved, and we'll see about making a deal, hm?"

Silence, and more silence. "She won't say anything," Arthur predicted. "Your interrogator isn't making a connection with her. She doesn't want to talk, to explain –"

"To apologize," Merlin said softly. She hadn't smiled at him, she'd looked frightened to see him awake. "What if I go in there?"

Chance looked at Arthur. "Usually it's not a good idea to let a victim face the perpetrator of the crime," the agent said, non-judgmentally. "Many victims simply can't control their emotions, their reactions, and play right back into the criminals' hands, ending up feeling twice as victimized."

Arthur looked at Merlin, then back through the window at Grace. "Let him try," he told Chance.

They reminded him of the rules – he wasn't to touch the suspect at any time, wasn't to threaten in any way. Get any kind of confession you can; we'll be watching, we'll stop it if we have to. Merlin nodded, and they opened the door of the interrogation room for him.  
Grace looked up, sullen and uncooperative, and gasped, her freckles startlingly clear as she paled swiftly. "You!" she said. "How-"

"Hello, Grace," he said, taking a seat across from her. He squeezed his hands together between his knees and leaned his chest against the edge of the table. "Or should I say, good morning?"

"You – but you – they said –" She clamped her mouth shut, frowning in consternation.

"I understand, Grace," Merlin said. "You had bills to pay, after your mother's illness, they offered you a lot of money. I suppose you agreed without knowing what they were planning to do to me? I want you to know, I'm not angry with you. I don't blame you. I mean, hell, you fed me through a straw for almost a week – I suppose I should thank you."

A tear slipped down her face. "They said you wouldn't remember," she whispered. "They said I was to make you think – that you were in the hospital."

"Make me think I'd tried to kill myself?" Merlin said. He lifted his hands to the table, pushed up his sleeve. She watched, fascinated, as he unsnapped the black leather cuff and showed her the three scars.

"She said you were broken," Grace said, staring at him. "She said you'd – OD on a street corner, or end up institutionalized. She said no one would believe you, even if you remembered – something."

"She?" Merlin questioned gently, thanking whatever destiny he had that Arthur had been there for him.

Grace brought her elbows up to rest on the table, leaned her head in her hands. "My roommate," she said in a voice of exhaustion. Merlin guessed they had not gotten that far back in the RN's history, researching her connections. "We went to school together. We were going to be surgeons… she was so brilliant, and I – struggled."

"Grace," Merlin said. The thought of his next question made him feel cold inside. "What did she want with _me_?"

There was silence in the tiny interrogation room. Grace threaded her fingers through her limp freckle-colored hair and tilted her face so she could look at him. "Research," she said, and he repressed a shudder. "She said – an incredible specimen. Extraordinary DNA – untapped potential." Grace lowered her head again, mumbling. "I asked where they'd found – someone like that – someone who volunteered… They told me not to ask."

"Did you ask what they planned to do with – my blood?" he said in a low voice.

"Research," she insisted. There was a note of desperation in her voice. "They wanted to study – she said – plenty of time for practical applications."

"What about the public performance?" Merlin said.

"_I_ don't know – I don't _know_!" Silence fell. Merlin focused on keeping his breathing steady, wondering what else he should ask. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I tried to help you – I called to tell the police where you were."

"That was you?" he said, surprised.

"You were – polite," she said. "You were – different. Special, they said. I thought – tests, I thought. They'd do tests, ask questions, but – the things I saw you do!"

Merlin couldn't stop the question. "What did you see me do?" he blurted curiously.

"That trick with the lights," she said. "Off and on, like –" She flapped a hand in the air.

Fascinated – _that's not telekinesis, unless it's moving the light switch_ – he mimicked her movement, wondering what would happen if –

The interrogation room went totally dark. Grace shrieked. Merlin gaped in shock for a second, then realized that Chance and Arthur would have been listening to the conversation from the next room. _What's Chance playing at_? he wondered.

"Don't worry, Grace," he said calmly into the dark, over her whimpers. "In three seconds I'll snap my fingers and the lights will come back on. One – two –" _Come on, guys, _he thought, _don't leave me hanging_ – "Three." He snapped his fingers, and the lights were on.

Grace's face was white under the freckles, her brown eyes wide. "They said they'd given you a cure," she said. "So you wouldn't be able to stop them."

Ah – now the light trick made sense. Chance had been one step ahead. "I think they told you a lot of things that weren't true," Merlin said, getting up from his chair. "Because I am going to stop them."

Chance was following Arthur out of the observation room when Merlin was let out of the locked interrogation room by another agent. Arthur looked satisfied, confident, proud – Chance looked like he'd just been punched in the gut. Merlin paused – wasn't the agent happy with how much Grace had said? Surely they had enough to find the female doctor, and they already knew about Xander.

"Nice trick with the lights, huh," Merlin said. If anything, the agent looked more startled.

"Let's go," Arthur said, pulling at the sleeve of Merlin's sweater.

When they reached the Mustang, Arthur started the engine and adjusted the heater, but made no move to shift gears. "How are you doing, Merlin?" he asked.

"You mean, are you about to crack up, Merlin?" he said humorously. "Are you about to lose it and run screaming? No, I mean – pretty scrambled, still, but – okay."

Arthur took a deep breath. "Gaius said we should give you – time and a little space," he said. "He told us not to talk about – some things you'd find –"

"Unbelievable," Merlin said.

"Merlin," Arthur said. "This morning, when we almost got hit by that moving van – my foot was nowhere near the brake."

Merlin heard the words, but somehow couldn't assimilate them. "What?" he said.

"That thing with the lights in the interrogation room?" Arthur continued.

"I wasn't sure what Chance was –"

Arthur interrupted him. "Chance didn't do that. I didn't do that. The controls for that light are inside the room. The only controls."

"But that's – not telekinesis," Merlin objected. "Anyway, I thought that I-"

"Magic," Arthur said. "Gaius said – it's not something you have, it's something you _are_. He thinks maybe, even though that cure was able to suppress it for a time, it's so much a part of you – it _can't_ be cured."

"Oh," Merlin said. Magic. _You are a son of the earth, the sea, the sky. Magic is the fabric of this world and you were born of that magic – you are magic itself_. His eyes dropped to his hands, clasped together on his knees in the passenger seat of the car. He let them fall apart, cupping them so there would be a hollow - _believe what your heart knows to be true_ – and then it seemed natural that the space should be filled. He closed his eyes –

Leon's MineCraft Camelot – with rounded towers, not the blocks of virtual lego-land, with waving pennants…the citadel silhouetted against the moon as he waited for the great dragon to answer his call. _Young warlock, your and Arthur's path – Prince Arthur is calling for you – _Mer_lin! _

Arthur swept a great cloth off a dusty stone table… a round table… Arthur reached to grasp the hilt of a sword embedded in rock. _Long live the king! Long live_ – Arthur lay limp on a forest floor, dying slowly as Merlin breathed the campfire into being… _this is not an end, this is a beginning_.

Merlin opened his eyes and gazed a moment at the ball of blue light floating above his palms before releasing it. He glanced at Arthur, who'd witnessed the display calmly. "Arthur, I –" Merlin had the feeling he was standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon getting ready to perform an Olympic-style dive. And he'd never even been to the Grand Canyon. "You're going to think I'm crazy."

"No, I won't," Arthur said, so confidently Merlin thought perversely, _I'll show him_.

"You're King Arthur," he said. _You never knew King Arthur of Britain. _He argued, _Yes, I did – I do. He's right here_.

"Yes." Arthur wasn't fazed. Instead, he seemed pleased.

"No, I mean – not like a nickname, or a joke. And not like, 'I think you're King Arthur.' "_ I remember my instructor telling us about a patient he had that was convinced he was Napoleon_. It wasn't a delusion if it was about another person, was it? "You are – actually – King Arthur."

"Yes," Arthur said, grinning like a schoolboy. "And you are Merlin my sorcerer." _Do I really play along with your delusional fantasies? I shouldn't do that, should I? That won't help you get better._

"Dammit, I have lost my mind," Merlin groaned, letting his head drop back.

"Not at all," Arthur said. "You've _found_ it."


	16. First Responders

**Warning: I'm aware of the similarities of my plot to the actual bombing of the Boston marathon last April, so anyone who might have difficulties reading this, because of that, I apologize.**

**Chapter 16: First Responders**

Arthur woke early Saturday morning with his stomach in knots. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling tiles, listening to the faintest clicking of the upstairs dog's nails as it crossed the floor. What did he have to be nervous or upset about? Merlin was _back_. Almost fully back. Since Wednesday, when corroboration from Gaius, Gwen, and the knights had been helpful to convince the sorcerer he wasn't delusional and being indulged, Merlin had only occasionally asked an out-of-the-blue kind of question to verify his memories.

"Did I really confess to sorcery in front of your father and the council – and no one believed me?"

It seemed to Arthur, though he hadn't discussed it with anyone else, that Merlin's difficulties assimilating the memories of his previous life were all but gone. Somehow, in the "scrambling", as Merlin described it, the memories returned to him melded in a new and harmonious way. Maybe he didn't remember everything yet, but everything he did remember was an accepted part of him. Maybe not _comfortable_ – were anyone's memories all comfortable? – but _absorbed_.

"Rise and shine," Merlin mumbled from the other room, grunting as he struggled upright from his place on the couch. "You awake, Arthur?" Arthur heard his friend's bones and joints pop as he stretched. "Let's have you – _dammit_ – lazy daisy."

"I've got first dibs on the bathroom," Arthur said, but didn't move to rise.

Merlin snorted. "I'll be done by the time you're out of the bed," he predicted.

Neither of them was hungry that early, and Arthur left the Mustang's engine running while Merlin went in to get two cups of coffee at the corner convenience store.

"Forty minutes til the marathon starts," Merlin reminded him as he drove downtown. "They'll start signing the runners in, soon."

Baltimore PD had a labeled security marquee set up in a Dollar Store parking lot a block from the starting line. Gwaine was already there when they arrived, in the doorway of the tent, wearing a dark blue jacket over a bullet-proof vest, the collar of his communication equipment visible at the top of the zipper. His styrofoam cup of coffee steamed in the chill morning air.

"Morning, princess," he greeted them, yawning and rumpling his hair with his free hand. "Merlin. Have any trouble with his highness this morning?"

"I'm surprised to see you up this early," Arthur returned. "Especially on a Saturday."

"Well, I obeyed my orders last night," Gwaine said.

Merlin murmured, "For once," and Gwaine pushed his shoulder with a fist.

"I went to bed without a single drink. But," Gwaine added, grinning, "I plan on making up for it tonight."

"Let's get through today, first," Arthur advised. "Then we can all get drunk."

The police captain they'd spoken to when Merlin was arrested was there, and checked their identification before issuing them flak vests, jackets, and firearms.

"I understand I have you all to thank for this mess," he said, as Gwaine zipped Merlin's vest and Arthur adjusted the shoulder holster that would be hidden under his jacket. "Terrorist threats, NSA agents telling me my business, bomb squad standing by…"

Gwaine flashed him a grin, tossing dark blue jackets to Merlin and Arthur. "Would you rather we hadn't said anything?" he asked.

The captain smiled. "No, I wouldn't," he allowed. "If this turns out to be more than smoke and noise, and your teams helps us keep today from turning into a tragedy, I will personally shred that arrest report." Merlin glanced up with a shy smile.

Gwaine hefted a flat gray case, three times as long as it was wide, to the top of a folding table. Inside were the several pieces of a long-distance single-shot rifle, complete with a sizeable sniper's scope. "What do you think?" he said.

Merlin reached for the pieces, snapping and twisting and locking them into place, then lifting the weapon to his shoulder to sight through the scope. "I think I can probably get it to shoot straight," he said with a private smile. Gwaine chuckled and turned to select two communication sets similar to the ones they'd borrowed for the raid on the drone hangar in June. A simple collar-mounted mic with an earpiece receiver.

"We're channel five," Gwaine told them. "NSA is four, and PD is one. They've got twice the security along the route, in and out of uniform, and two cops on motor bikes to stay with the field, first runners and last. I'll be our team's connection to Baltimore PD, like you wanted, Arthur, and free to move about the whole route at our discretion."

Arthur keyed channel four. "Percival," he said, exiting the security tent with the dark-haired knight, Merlin right behind them.

"_I'm here, Arthur_," the big knight's voice responded. "_Good morning_."

"Give our compliments to Agent Chance," Arthur said. He wondered how Agent Chance was handling Merlin's lights display of Wednesday, whether he would have questions for Arthur later or whether he'd managed to convince himself he'd been mistaken in what he witnessed.

Chance's voice came on then, "_We're covering the clinic. Any sign of Dr. Spell or Dr. Steffan, we'll move in. We've got a CDC agent standing by to take charge of any biological threat. You're welcome to join our team at any time_."

"Thank you," Arthur said. "I'll be down your way soon." He switched his com-channel to five. "Leon?"

"_Waiting for you on the street, a block up from the clinic, just across from the bank_," Leon answered.

"I'll let you know when we get there," Arthur said, and turned back to Gwaine. "Have they found any indication that there were more bombs placed that the four Leon and Percival found?" Arthur asked.

"No. Bomb squad's snipped the wires, but left the apparatus in place. They won't go boom – but they still look like they will. Baltimore PD is covering all four sites to catch anyone who comes to check on them."

"All right," Arthur said. "I'd like for you to double-check those sites, let me know if and when any of the receivers come online. We'll get Merlin his eagle-eye view, and Leon and I will walk the crowd in the quarter-mile or so up and down from the clinic."

"Yes, sire," Gwaine said, and headed off.

Arthur turned to Merlin. "Let's go," he said.

They took a back-streets route to the 1st National Bank, kitty-corner across the main street from the clinic, which had the advantage of being the tallest building for at least half a mile in any direction, and completely empty on a weekend day. Arthur kept glancing over at Merlin in his passenger seat – the radio-collar around his neck, the earpiece and the NSA jacket, the sniper rifle balanced stock-down between his boots in the foot-well, Merlin's hands steady on the grip.

He remembered his reaction to his young friend in Fast Eddie's so long ago – Merlin, smoking and showing off a tattoo. And now this?

"What's the matter?" Merlin asked him.

"Nothing." Arthur shook his head. Destiny had a twisted sense of humor, that was for sure. "Just – you."

"Me what?" Merlin said.

"Riding shotgun – with a shotgun," Arthur said lightly.

Merlin looked puzzled. "It's not a shotgun," he corrected. "It's a Remington tactical –"

"Never mind," Arthur said, pulling into the employee parking lot of 1st National, behind the building. "It was a joke."

Standing under the rusted-metal fire escape on the back of the bank, Arthur linked his fingers together and gestured for Merlin to lift his foot for a leg up. Merlin had one of his left-field-question moments. "Did I really used to get down on my hands and knees next to your horse and let you use me as a mounting block?" he asked, slinging the rifle's strap over his head and one shoulder.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Once or twice," he said. "Come on."

Merlin gave him a strange smile. "You know I could probably use magic to –" He motioned upwards at the fire escape enclosure.

"Save it," Arthur said. "No, I mean – save the magic. Save your strength for something important." He beckoned again, crouching slightly as he prepared to take his friend's weight. Merlin put his boot in Arthur's hands and he grunted as he heaved the sorcerer upwards. "Damn, you're heavier than you look," he said, as Merlin caught the edge of the fire escape railing. He ducked as the teenager kicked twice before managing to pull himself up. "You good?"  
"I'm good," Merlin said, craning his neck to study the five stories of metal stairs he had to climb before reaching the iron ladder that stood out inches from the brick and led to the roof.

"Keep in touch," Arthur said, indicating the radio-collar.

Merlin nodded, heading up the first flight of steps. "It'll take a while for the runners to get here," he called down, then leaned over a rail to give Arthur a wide, irreverent grin. "Don't get bored."

"Today? Not likely," Arthur muttered. He watched til Merlin had reached the roof, then acknowledged his friend's wave, and went around to the front of the building.

White-painted sawhorses had been placed in the gutters to keep spectators out of the main road the runners would use, and people were already beginning to mill about, warm drinks or snacks or cameras or camp chairs in hand. A young mother with a double stroller passed him, assuring the two toddlers within, dressed in identical red-and-white-striped stocking caps, "Then Daddy will run right past here, and we'll wave and cheer, won't we?"

Arthur twisted around to study the crenellation at the roof of the bank. There was Merlin, black rifle barrel just visible as the young sorcerer used the scope to scout his surroundings. Arthur touched the transmit button on his mic. "Leon?" he said.

_"A block up and across the street_," came the former knight's voice through the earpiece.

"See anything interesting?" Arthur said.

_"Could be,"_ Leon allowed. _"What do you say to a double handful of young single guys wandering through the crowd?_"

Arthur's eye was caught by a dark-jacket-clad arm, flagging his attention, and he nodded to Leon. "They're here to watch their friends participate," Arthur said.

_"Participate,"_ Leon snorted.

"Remember we have out-of-uniform PD here, too," Arthur said. "But keep an eye out for trouble."

_"Yes, sire,"_ Leon said.

_"Heads up, Arthur,"_ Percival said quickly, warningly_. "We've got a POV entering the back lot of the clinic, single female occupant." _In the absence of other action, Arthur chose to turn toward the clinic, keeping his eye out for the semi-suspicious loiterers that Leon had mentioned_. "She's carrying a large case, a cooler, red cross symbol. She's unlocking the back door."_

Chance's voice cut across Percival's_. "Arthur, knock on the front door. Distract her, we'll come in the back."_

Arthur quickened his steps, hurried across the front parking lot toward the clinic, the blue-and-white CLOSED sign still in the window. He banged on the door with his fist, peering through the darkened glass. "Hello?" he said loudly, and kept knocking.

There was movement within, a figure that came to the lobby door, then crossed to unbolt the door. "We're not open yet," the woman said. She was inches taller than Arthur and broad-shouldered for a woman, dressed in khaki pants and a blue cardigan, her brown hair pulled back into a tight bun.

Arthur pulled the door wide open, giving her his charming smile – which slipped as Merlin's voice came tensely into his ear_, "That's her."_

"Yes, ma'am, I'm aware," he said. "I'm serving with the security detail for the marathon today, and we're having some trouble we thought you might be able to help us with."

"What sort of trouble?" she said. "Is anyone hurt?" There was something off about her tone, something that was not sympathetic or sorrowful, but eager.

Chance appeared in the lobby doorway behind her, handgun drawn but down at his side. "Doctor Steffan?" he said.

She startled, turning, and Arthur used the moment to push his way inside and let the door close, hand inside his jacket on the grip of his own weapon. "What are you doing in here?" she said.

"Agent Chance, ma'am, with the NSA," he said. "You are Doctor Jan Steffan, are you not?"

"Yes I am, though why that's any business of yours, I can't see –"

"Jan Steffan, you are under arrest for kidnapping, torture, unlawful imprisonment, attempted murder, conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism against the people of the city of Baltimore." While he spoke, Chance holstered his weapon and approached the doctor. "Please put your hands behind your back."

"I will do no such thing," she snapped. "You have clearly been misinformed. I am a doctor. My interests are science and research. I have done nothing –"

"You are familiar with Grace Clayton, are you not?" Chance said, gently forcing the woman's arms behind her back, clicking on the handcuffs.

"My _roommate_ in _college_?" she said, the soul of disbelief. "She was always something of a problem, into all kinds of trouble –"

"Are you aware, ma'am, that Miss Clayton called a missing-persons tip on the Baltimore police department hotline –"

"What she does or doesn't do is nothing to do with –" Dr. Steffan interrupted.

"Claiming that a young man was being held captive in the basement of this clinic?" Chance continued calmly.

"In the basement?" she scoffed. "There's nothing down there – you can check."

"Oh, we did." Chance sounded confident, but glanced at Arthur. "Are you also aware that the young man in question broke into this clinic last week?"

"What?" The doctor's incredulously-offended demeanor cracked slightly. "I thought it was some teenager trying to steal our medications."

Arthur reached deliberately to his collar mic transmitter. "Marvin," he said clearly, and she startled. "Marvin, come in."

"_Yes, Mr. Drake,"_ Merlin returned sarcastically.

"Dr. Steffan is not inclined to cooperate with us," Arthur said. "She doesn't believe we have a credible witness. What say you to that?" There was a pause.

"_Ask her if she remembers the last thing I said to her,"_ Merlin said, sounding grim. _"I asked if she was a high priestess of the Old Religion, if she'd hung mandrake root under the hospital bed."_

Arthur kept his face impassive, but couldn't help an internal wince. _Oh, hell, Merlin._ "Do you remember what he said to you," he relayed Merlin's words to the doctor, and the blood drained from her face. Chance gave Arthur a startled look over her shoulder.

"How did you know that?" she demanded.

"You thought his mind had broken, and that he wouldn't remember," Arthur said. "You were wrong. He remembered Grace also. She told us everything."

A female agent appeared in the doorway. "We have the biological in hand, Agent," she reported to Chance. "Agent Andrews is taking custody of the evidence and will return the case to the CDC."

"Make sure you've got it _all_," Arthur stressed.

Agent Chance nodded in confirmation. "Why don't you and I walk back to your office, Dr. Steffan," he said. "You can tell me your side of the story."

Chance glanced back at him. "I need to speak with you, if we get the opportunity," he said. "About Marvin." Arthur took a deep breath, and nodded. Had to happen, sooner or later, he supposed.

"_Arthur_," Merlin's voice caught him as he followed Chance and Jan Steffan to the hallway. "_You have someone approaching the front door_." Arthur turned and retraced his steps across the lobby. Through the front window he glimpsed a man in jeans and ball cap, hands in the pouch pocket of his sweatshirt, several weeks' worth of scruff on his face. Arthur reached to lean on the crash bar and step out over the threshold as Merlin added, "_I think it's –"_

The man looked up as Arthur stood in his way. _Hyden_. The door shut behind him. "Hello, Sergeant Major," Arthur said, striving to keep his tone pleasant. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Arthur Drake," Hyden growled, glaring. He made a jerky movement like he'd pull his hand from the pouch pocket.

"_Arthur_," Merlin said in his ear, a desperate warning.

"I wouldn't," Arthur said, still pleasantly, though he was sure Hyden had a concealed weapon and was itching to use it. "My friend Marvin – you remember Marvin Caroban, don't you, Sergeant Major? – is across the street on the roof of the bank with a Remington tactical rifle. You remember how accurate his aim is, don't you?"

Hyden's whole body stiffened, and his eyes darted briefly sideways, though he'd have to turn almost one-eighty degrees to see Merlin. He stopped, as if he couldn't turn far enough to see for fear that too much movement would provoke the shot. "Bullshit," he snarled. "That kid was mumbling and drooling when we –" He stopped suddenly, realizing he'd said too much.

"Bring your hands out where I can see them," Arthur told him coldly, wishing he was a prince again, a king, and could plant his fist in the man's face – again and again, actually – with no repercussions. "Slowly." He reached under his jacket to free his own handgun to enforce his arrest of the sergeant major – his first arrest, part of his mind registered dispassionately.

The door opened behind him – someone said, "Arthur," – he instinctively turned, checked, whirled back – Hyden's arm was a blur ending in unnatural black metal –

_Zip_. A spray of red stained the brick wall of the clinic, Hyden's gun clattered at Arthur's feet, and the sergeant major cursed, startled and breathless, clutching his right arm to his bowed body as blood splashed to the ground.

Chance, behind Arthur at the door to the clinic, swore also, the first time he'd heard the agent use less-than-appropriate language. "What the hell just happened?"

"Merlin?" Arthur said, squinting up to the black dot that was his friend's form atop the bank building. "You just shot Hyden?"

"_In the arm_," Merlin returned unapologetically. "_Tell him it could've been the back_." His voice held a trace of the old insouciance, and more than a little satisfaction.

"Segeant Major Hyden, from Fort Bragg?" Chance said. "Let's get him inside – this is a medical clinic, after all."

Arthur grabbed a handful of Hyden's sweatshirt where the hood met the shoulder and manhandled him into the clinic, pausing to retrieve the dropped firearm as Chance took charge of the prisoner.

"You're in luck," the agent told Hyden, marching him across the lobby. "We have a doctor here in custody that can help you with that arm. Or maybe you are already acquainted with Dr. Steffan? Sergeant Spiers, would you let the appropriate military authorities know that we found something that belongs to them?"

Arthur heard Percival's deep quiet voice from further down the hall. "Yes, sir."

Dr. Steffan, Arthur mused, had acted like she hadn't connected the break-in to Merlin and the team, didn't know about Grace's arrest. But Xander probably had another employee capable of hacking computer systems, gaining information on police reports. Xander surely knew by now that his plan had been discovered. Again. He surely knew by now about Grace's arrest, about the phone call that had tipped them to the clinic and their fruitless raid, maybe even the identity of the teenager who had broken in.

Grace had believed Merlin's mind and memory lost, Dr. Steffan had been shocked to hear the words only he could have known. Hyden, whatever his role in Merlin's abduction or release, had believed Arthur to be bluffing.

What had Grace said to Merlin? _They said they'd given you a cure, so you wouldn't be able to stop them._ Knowing that they knew, Xander had chosen to go ahead with the plan. And when the quarry knew of the trap laid, the unexpected happened.

"_Arthur_." It was Gwaine's voice, through the earpiece.

"Go ahead," he acknowledged.

Gwaine's voice was partially muffled as he spoke to someone else. "_You sure it's all four_?" Arthur heard a mumble in the background, then Gwaine was back. "_All four explosive devices were just activated. The times are offset by ten-second intervals, the first one to go off in sixty-five seconds."_

"Merlin, how far is the field of runners?" Arthur said. He pushed through the clinic's front door, took a position on the sidewalk by the road.

"I don't know, I can't –" Merlin sounded irritated, then corrected himself. "Oh. Sorry." Remembering, maybe, as Arthur had, how he'd examined the woods for Saxons. _They're long gone_, Merlin had claimed. _How do you know that_? Arthur had questioned in his unfamiliarity and discomfort with the sorcerer's newly revealed powers. _I can see the path ahead._ An explanation and an admission.

"_There's half a dozen runners in front who will probably be past the bombs by that time, but the bulk of the field will be right there_," Merlin reported.

"That means they have a spotter," Arthur said, "with a control device. Gwaine? He'll be far enough up from the blast site to be out of danger, and have a vantage point to scout distance and estimate speed."

"_Got it_," Gwaine said. "_We'll find him_."

The seconds ticked past. "Leon, anything new?" he asked.

"_Negative, sire_," Leon answered. "_I've identified at least half of my suspicions as plainclothes PD."_

Fifty-five seconds. Arthur waited nervously, watching down the road. If there was more than four bombs planted… if there was any kind of back-up plan… He began walking forward.

Sixty seconds. Sixty-five ticked past, and nothing happened. No explosions, no smoke. The cop on the lead motor bike buzzed past, accompanied by the leading half-dozen runners pounding along, panting. Spectators waved and cheered, most still watching the direction from which they'd come for friends or family participating.

"Arthur," Percival said breathlessly, jogging up behind him. "Just got a call on Hyden's cell – a coded message. Chance thinks since the bombs failed, they might have a plan B in place, and this call was a go-ahead signal of some sort."

"He didn't let Hyden answer it, did he?" Arthur said.

"No, but if it was some kind of recognition code, and contingencies were already in place for Hyden's lack of response –" Percival said.

"_Arthur, we got him_," Gwaine crowed breathlessly. "_Got the trigger-man for the explosives – no one was hurt."_

"Good," Arthur said. "But we need to be on the lookout for –"

"_Arthur_!" Merlin said urgently.

"_Gun_!" Leon bellowed at almost the same time. Down the street, Arthur could see frantic action, could hear the screams. It was like someone had heaved a rock into a school of unwary fish.

"_Take him down, Leon_!" It was Merlin's voice, stern and scared and commanding all at once. "_I'll keep it misfiring_!"

Arthur vaulted over the white-painted sawhorse and took off down the street, dodging a few oblivious runners, Percival close behind him. _Yeah, that made sense. The bombs fizzled, so you pulled out your demented-shooter-with-an-assault-rifle plan_. He could probably hurt almost as many people in almost as much time – and then they'd be herded to the clinic for first aid.

Arthur glimpsed a figure in jeans and a dark knee-length jacket struggling with the magazine on what looked like a G36 carbine, and they were still twenty-five feet away when Leon came flying through the crowd and tackled the gunman to the pavement. The rifle went flying, more people screamed. A baby was crying. Arthur pointed, and Percival swerved to retrieve the weapon.

"Need a hand, Leon?" Arthur asked. The former knight had his knee in the small of the man's back and was leaning his forearm on the back of his neck to subdue him enough to cuff him. The man kicked and flailed. Leon grunted, and Arthur snatched a pair of cuffs from the knight's belt, catching the gunman's left hand and clicking one circle shut, yanking his arm around where Leon could finish the arrest.

Three or four plainclothes officers surrounded them, shouting offers for help or directions to the crowd. Arthur ignored them.

"Thank you, sire," Leon panted, touched the transmit button on his com-collar. "Thank you, Merlin."

"_You're all right, aren't you_?" Merlin said, sounding concerned.

"We're fine, Merlin," Arthur answered. "Leave him there, Leon." Arthur turned to the nearest policeman to tell him, "He's all yours." He glanced around – though the crowd was agitated, no one seemed to have been shot or hurt, aside from a couple scrapes from being pushed over. The runners were still trickling through, looking concerned and unsure, but in the absence of official orders to stop, they kept jogging. Percival turned the assault rifle over to one of the uniformed officers who had appeared to deal with the man now in custody, marching him off between two of them, two more following alertly.

"_Arthur_." All three of them heard Gwaine's voice, terse and displeased. "_I wanted them to cordon off the route but they refused – all the runners are continuing on. Something about a local celebrity trying to beat a record or some bull –_"

"What the hell else?" Arthur said tiredly. "Merlin, what can you see?" Silence. Then static crackled, through their com equipment, loud and painful, enough that all three of them snatched at their ear-pieces. Percival said something Arthur had never heard before, and found surprising – no doubt he'd picked it up in the military.

Even from the distance of a foot or so away, Arthur could still hear the angry hiss from the earpiece. "Arthur?" Leon said. "I have a bad feeling about –"

"Yeah – keep your eyes open, this isn't over," Arthur said, and glanced at Percival. "Get Merlin down here."

Percival moved past the stream of jogging marathoners, onto the sidewalk. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he bellowed, "MERLIN!" then motioned to the sorcerer to descend.

Arthur turned in a slow circle, scanning the bundled crowd, the more scantily-clad and numbered runners. Nothing. Nothing he could _see_, but it wasn't nothing.

Merlin loped up to them moments later, out of breath, his sniper's rifle slung across his back, his own earpiece bobbing against his collarbone. "We're being jammed," he said tersely.

"What did you do, fly?" Arthur said to him. "No way you came down the fire escape that fast."

"No, I can't fly," Merlin scoffed, but his eyes were roving through the crowd also, his body tense. "It's more like – I jumped, then caught myself at the last minute." He began to whistle nervously through his teeth, the tune of the refrain of Kenny Rogers' "Gambler"_. You gotta know when to hold 'em_…

Arthur noticed that one knee of Merlin's jeans had been torn open, the denim edges stained with blood. Merlin's palms were scraped, too. "Caught yourself?" he said, indicating his friend's injuries. "My dog can catch better than you."

_Know when to fold 'em_… Merlin whistled, too keyed up to take note of Arthur's attempted joke. "You don't have a dog," he reminded him belatedly.

"Well, Gaius' dog –" Arthur stopped, and Merlin turned at the same time.

In the steady stream of marathoners, dressed in shorts, t-shirts, tights, wind-jackets, one person in a suit and tie was making his way against the flow, walking slowly and steadily toward them. He stopped just far enough away that they could not reach him in a full-length dive such as Leon had just performed. Arthur recognized him from the pictures they'd discovered online – his employee photo, press conferences and awards ceremonies, even the odd classroom lecture.

"Dr. Andrew Spell," Arthur said.

**A/N: Sorry this has taken a few days, I ended up rewriting it which lost me a day's worth of scribbles. Also, it ended up being so long that I split it into two chapters, the last one should be up by tonight, I think.**


	17. The Emrys Strain

**Chapter 17: The Emrys Strain**

"Dr. Andrew Spell," Arthur said, raising his voice slightly to be heard above the shuffle and panting of the race. How many runners? he wondered. How long would it take for them all to pass and the spectators to disperse? "Or should I call you Xander?"

"Xander, if you please, Arthur Drake," the other said. Close up, Arthur could see that the suit and neat haircut and clean shave was only a shell; the eyes blazed black with a terrible, homicidal rage. Beside him, Merlin shivered. "I left Dr. Andrew Spell behind when Thomas Drake – your father – ended my career and ruined my life."

_Hellfire and damnation_. How many times, Arthur wondered, was he going to have to listen to the same evil-villain _shit_? This lifetime, too?

"Good morning, Marvin," Xander continued, turning to face Merlin, who was pale and taut as a guitar string. "I am pleased to see you found your way home. And they have trusted you with a weapon today. Interesting. I rather regret testing our cure on you – Emrys the First, you could say – but dear boy, _supra omnem scientiam_. Progress is progress, you know. Do you suppose Thomas Drake will be sorry to say goodbye to the lab's newest pet?"

The terrorist's casual threat made Arthur's blood run cold. "You're mistaken," he said. "My father really couldn't care less what happens to him. If you think to spite Thomas Drake, send Mer – Marvin home without a scratch on him. Why bother with the _project_ when you could have the _son_?" he goaded the man.

"Shut up, Arthur," Merlin warned him.

With Xander's eyes on him, on Merlin beside him, Arthur could give no surreptitious signals – but Leon had worked with and for him so long he didn't always need the signals to know what Arthur wanted and needed. And Percival had the intelligence and training to take his cue from the older knight. They began to edge to each side, almost as if they were being buffeted and moved by the bodies of the runners.

"Ah, ah, ah," Xander chided, and raised one hand to show them a small black boxlike device. Leon and Percival froze, and Merlin hissed. "Tell your men to back up and keep going," Xander told Arthur. "If my thumb comes off this button…" He shook it warningly. Arthur didn't have to give the two knights any orders, they began to retreat cautiously but definitely.

"Those first responders," the terrorist sighed. "Such heroes, aren't they? Even knowing the possibility – probability, should we say at this point in history? – of a secondary detonation, they still come. Unfortunately, there was no primary explosion this morning for them to respond to, was there?" Xander's lips drew back, revealing crooked, yellow-stained teeth. "Don't despair, gentlemen – the day is young."

He turned, his thumb moving off the button in the center of the small black device.

Beside Arthur, Merlin's gasp of "No!" shifted into a rumble-roar of detonated explosives – the air shivered – _warmed_ – the ground trembled – the bank building mushroomed in a cloud of fire and brick –

And froze. Everything – everyone – froze. His body unable to move, Arthur's eyes tracked Merlin as the young sorcerer stepped forward, empty hands raised, voice rough with strain, throaty with commanding fury, pronouncing words Arthur did not understand, but recognized from his sixth century lifetime.

Another wall of air slammed into the left side of Arthur's body – chunks of concrete and brick flew into the air from the closed post office tucked between two taller buildings – Merlin half-turned, closing his left hand into a fist without pausing. The debris slowed – and stopped as though embedded in the clear gel of the air. Merlin continued speaking, but Arthur heard nothing but a high-pitched ringing. He thought foggily of the sorcerer at the round table of Camelot Securities, surrounded by the bits of paper Gwaine had been flicking.

_This is_, Arthur thought, _one hell of a snow globe_.

Merlin turned his head, and the broken wreckage of the bank retreated, settled, onto its foundation, into the empty parking lot, away from the road and the people. He made a pushing gesture with both arms, clearing the air of car-sized masses of masonry and rock, skimming the shrapnel and shards of brick and metal back into piles of rubble as easily as a child pushing and shaping his castle in a sandbox.

Fires ignited in the ruins of both buildings, dancing and twisting upward, snarling to be free, but finding no fuel to spread.

Arthur found he could move – slowly and with difficulty, as though he was under-water, but he pushed forward, step by step, til he could catch the remote detonator from Xander's motionless hand.

Xander turned, slow as Arthur, to fix him with a malevolent glare, then faced Merlin again. He lifted his hand – Arthur watched it rise, inch by inch in sick fascination, palm toward the teenager's back, fingers splayed. Dread washed over him and he opened his mouth to scream a warning. "_MER_ –" as a thick bolt of light sprang from Xander's outstretched hand, crossed the distance to Arthur's friend – "_LIN_!"

The bolt hit Merlin, splashing so widely the young man was obscured for an instant, before he was knocked flying – _no, he said he couldn't fly_, Arthur thought – and slid several feet along the street before coming to a motionless stop. The sniper rifle clattered on a few feet without him.

Time resumed. People screamed, smoke billowed to the left and to the right, the flames licked upward. Rubble shifted, fragments pattering down.

Arthur took one step toward Merlin, grimly halted the movement _– I can't help him_ – and swung around as Xander's hand emerged from under the opposite side of his suit coat, pointing a machine pistol at Arthur's chest.

Around them, chaos. Runners continued on the course, some swerving around them without taking in the reality of the situation, some shrieking and running for the sidewalk. Spectators scurried up the street, down the street, cowered for cover against the buildings that remained intact. Arthur wondered if he imagined the sound of sirens. He wondered if it would do any good to try for his own handgun just under his left arm.

"I was going to give you a message to take to your father," Xander told him, clearly and calmly, then shrugged. "I guess you'll just have to _be_ the message." The barrel lifted an inch, aiming, as Arthur understood, at the base of his neck, above the protection of the vest armor.

Xander's finger tightened. Arthur looked evenly into the man's eyes.

The pistol sputtered out five or six shots. Arthur never felt them. He _saw_ them, however, stopped in midair. He swallowed, and the skin of his throat brushed the first round. Xander's eyes widened in horror, shifted over Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur pivoted as Merlin stepped up beside him. The jeans had several more holes scraped in them, the blue NSA jacket was shredded, revealing the flak vest beneath. There was a road-blackened graze down the left side of his face, dripping blood down onto his collar. Smoke rose in twists and tendrils over his shoulders from his back. His hair was spiky with sweat and gray with plaster dust.

And there was golden fire in his eyes.

Arthur thought, incongruously, of Merlin whistling the Gambler. _Know when to walk away… know when to run…_

"I am not Emrys the First," Merlin said to Xander, quietly and oh-so dangerously. "_I am Emrys_. You thought you could steal my magic. You thought you could use my magic. You thought you could hurt my king." There was a brief moment when Merlin deliberately drew breath into his lungs, the length of time it took an indication of his struggle. Arthur hardly dared breathe, himself. Xander swallowed, his eyes flicking to Arthur, comprehension beginning to dawn.

"You were wrong," Merlin said. He jerked his chin upward slightly – and the pistol rounds hovering before Arthur disappeared.

Xander stumbled, his right arm dropping as though the machine pistol was suddenly too heavy. He brushed his suit coat to the side with his free hand. Red splotches bloomed on the white field of his collared shirt to either side of his tie. He coughed, choked, and red spilled over his chin.

A baby cried. The sirens crescendoed. Merlin reached out and took hold of Arthur's sleeve near his elbow. Not his arm, just the sleeve.

Xander knelt, slowly, leaning forward to put one hand down on the pavement of the road. He lowered himself, laid his head down. Arthur watched his body shrink slightly as his last breath was expelled.

Arthur's jacket pulled at his shoulder and neck as Merlin's grip tightened. Arthur turned in time to catch his friend under the arms and ease him down also. "_Merlin_!"

"I'm all right, I'm all right," the sorcerer repeated softly, his voice catching. "Just tired. Let me rest a minute."

Arthur helped Merlin lean over his knees. Leon and Percival were with them, then, Leon kneeling to check Xander's body, Percival bending over Arthur and Merlin with a question on his face. "Get me a first aid kit or something," Arthur said.

Leon turned. "He's dead," he reported.

"Cover him," Arthur said, and Leon scanned the crowd, coming back with someone's lap blanket.

"Hold still," Arthur told Merlin. "Relax, let me check this out." He unzipped the jacket, the flak vest. Merlin let his arms flop lifelessly at his sides, as he rested his forehead on his knees. Arthur eased off the torn and smoking remnants of the jacket. The flak vest, though the fabric was melted away from the Kevlar, was intact.

Merlin stiffened as Arthur pulled the heavy armor down his arms, let it topple over on the ground. Gently, he pulled the back of Merlin's collar away from his body. There was a circle of reddened, irritated skin, but no blood. Arthur let his other hand drop to the center of Merlin's chest, pressed to monitor his friend's heartbeat. Waited, counted, felt him breathe.

"Are you satisfied?" Merlin said, still in the soft, tired voice of someone who is out of breath and trying not to betray it. "Yes, my heart is still beating."

Arthur removed his jacket and arranged it around Merlin's shoulders, then folded his legs beneath him to join him on the ground. All around them the police, the emergency personnel arriving on the scene – firemen and medical techs alike – rushed back and forth, checking, reassuring – _handling_. Leon stood over them like a guard; Percival arrived with a small medical kit. Arthur took out the alcohol swabs, began to clean Merlin's hands. His friend didn't even move, not even to wince.

Gwaine knelt in front of them briefly with predictable questions that Arthur answered easily. _Are you all right? Yes – What happened? Tell you later – What can I do?_ A vague general gesture, _Help_.

Chance came a while later. "Is he all right?" he asked Arthur immediately. Arthur nodded, encouraging Merlin to turn his head so he could reach to wipe the scrape on his face. The agent stood and surveyed the damage around them, hands in his pockets. "Damn, Arthur," he uttered, then bent to check beneath the lap quilt a short way away. "This Xander?" he asked. "Multiple gunshot wounds… What happened to him?"

Merlin shut his eyes. Arthur said firmly, "As far as I'm concerned, the man shot himself." Chance gave him a measuring glance, then his gaze went to Merlin, briefly.

The Baltimore PD captain arrived, knelt and tried to duck low enough to see Merlin's face. "Is he all right?" he asked Arthur.

"Just tired," Arthur said noncommittally. "Scrapes and bruises. I want him checked out in an ER eventually."

"Soon as we can get him to an ambulance," the police captain promised. "Son?" he added, addressing the top of Merlin's disheveled head. "Consider your record cleared. We've got a double handful of minor injuries we're treating, but the worst is the broken wrist of a seventy-two-year-old woman who was knocked over. No casualties." He lifted his head to glance around, at two completely decimated buildings and a street still full of people. "None," he added in quiet disbelief, before moving off.

"It was thanks to him, wasn't it," Chance said. "I've seen demolitions experts handle controlled implosions with more disorder. What – I beg your pardon – _Who_ is he?"

Arthur gave him a half-smile. "Does it matter?" he said, remembering when he'd answered Chance's question _Have you two ever met before_? with the same response.

Chance looked at him, possibly remembering the same conversation. "Arthur, and Merlin," he said slowly, "In Camelot." The eyes of the unflappable NSA agent widened. "Is he –" he stuttered. "Are _you_ –"

At that moment a woman in a smudged navy suit with a draggled red scarf and a long run in the left leg of her nylons clattered up to them, shoving a microphone into Arthur's face, then Merlin's, as Gwaine on one side and Leon on the other tried to pull her back politely.

"That was incredible!" she squawked. "That was unbelievable! What's your name? Who are you? Have you always been able to manipulate the natural world around you?" Behind her hovered a man whose top half was hidden behind an enormous television camera.

Arthur stood, between the woman and Merlin. "The hell is wrong with you?" he said, putting as much energy into his anger as he could manage, glancing around for Percival. "You didn't see what you think you saw, trust me."

"Of course we did, and so did a dozen other witnesses," the female reporter snapped, trying to dodge him to see Merlin. "We have the testimony recorded – _awesome_ footage! –" her waving hand indicated a WBAL-tv van half on the curb at a cross-street. "And it'll run on the five-o'clock news," she finished triumphantly.

Arthur opened his mouth to tell her who he was, who his father was, threaten a lawsuit, but Chance beat him to it. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said blandly, flipping open his NSA badge. "I'm going to have to prevent that. National security, you understand. I'm going to have to confiscate any footage you may have recorded today."

The female reporter began to argue. Beside Arthur, Gwaine reached down, and helped Merlin to stand. Arthur glanced back to catch a fading gleam of gold from the sorcerer's eyes. "That won't be necessary, Agent Chance. I think you may want to check your equipment again," he said softly to the woman. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes bulged as she looked at him. She opened her mouth twice, but nothing came out, and she turned and stalked away.

Gibson Chance's mouth was open, too, briefly. He seemed unsure whether to laugh or interrogate. From behind Arthur, Percival said, "They have space for Merlin in an ambulance, now."

"May we?" Arthur said to the agent.

Chance mouthed, _Merlin_. Then he nodded, motioning for them to follow Percival, a gesture that was very close to a bow.

Arthur thought, _he's going to have questions, later._ But for now, he wasn't worried. "Come on," Arthur said to Merlin. "We're done here."

…..*….. …..*….. Epilogue – Thanksgiving …..*….. …..*…..

Each of them had their job, as previously assigned by the girls. Gaius was charged with concocting a perfect vinaigrette for the salad. Leon and Gwaine were salting and stuffing the turkey. Arthur himself was peeling potatoes, seated on one of the bar stools at the kitchen peninsula. Merlin, behind him at the table, was tasked with snapping the green beans.

"So how come Percival gets out of kitchen duty?" Gwaine complained, holding up both of his hands, which were covered in breading. "Just because he's late?"

"He is late," Gaius said sternly, "because Kathryn was experiencing a bit of morning sickness and wanted to feel herself before traveling."

"She's bringing fudge-pecan pie," Gwen reminded them from her supervisory position on the second barstool. Arthur thought she looked radiant in jeans and a v-neck sweater in dark red. He leaned over in obvious invitation, leading with his lips, and she arched a playful eyebrow at him before granting him a kiss.

"Percival said he'd bring rolls," Freya added from the table.

Arthur turned to see Freya leaned forward over the bowl of snapped beans. Beside her, by contrast, Merlin was reclined in his chair so far his head rested on the back and his feet pushed at the chair opposite.

"What about lazy here, then?" he objected.

Merlin grinned. Freya nudged him and said, "He's the entertainment."

"What's he going to do, juggle?" Leon said. "Gaius, have you got eggs in your fridge?"

"No," Gaius said sternly, to the suggestion, not the question.

"Some music, then, Merlin," Gwen said. "Arthur keeps talking about how you always pick the music to suit your mood."

"I what?" Merlin said.

"Come on, Merlin," Arthur goaded. "Play some music."

Merlin narrowed his eyes at the challenge. The radio clicked on in the kitchen. _Sing us a song you're the piano man… Sing us a song tonight… Well we're all in the mood for a melody… And you've got us feeling all right_!

Freya clapped her hands, and Leon had to remind Gwaine of his primary task, he was laughing so hard. "Play something _for_ someone," Arthur commanded.

"Play one for me, mate!" Gwaine agreed enthusiastically.

"Ah, hell, that's too easy," Merlin said lazily, not even moving. His eyes gleamed golden as the radio shot through _Wastin' away again in Margaritaville – To all the girls I've loved before – It's five o'clock somewhere_! like someone was slowly turning the dial.

"Hey!" Gwaine protested, grinning. Gwen collapsed into Arthur's side, giggling uncontrollably.

Arthur said, slyly, "Do Freya."

Heavy drum accompanied the immediately recognizable _Wild thing! You make my heart sing! You make everything – groovy!_ Freya shrieked, "Merlin!" She was bright red. Gwaine had disappeared below the level of the counter, but his uproarious chortling could still be heard. _Wild thing, I think I – love you… But I wanna know for sure! _Merlin lunged upright, wrapping his arms around Freya, squeezing her in a bear hug as she squirmed and giggled. His grin was wide and brilliant.

"Merlin!" Gaius called. "I think your generation would say, that's _too much information!_"

_Come on, hold me tight – I love you!_

"All right, enough!" Arthur bellowed. "Merlin! Give Gwen a song!"

Beside him, Gwen caught her breath long enough to protest, "Oh, no, Arthur –"

The Troggs gave way to Andru Donalds, _I say she must be somebody's baby… Cuz she's all right… She's probably somebody's only light, gonna shine tonight – yeah, she's probably somebody's baby all right… _It was Gwen's turn to blush, and Arthur's turn to pull her into a hug, grinning.

"Okay, now Arthur," Gwen said.

"No," Arthur said, Merlin grinned impishly and the childish strains of a nursery rhyme chanted through the radio_. I'm a little teapot, short and stout_… "Merlin!" Arthur said. _When I get all steamed up, hear me shout_! He twisted to throw a half-peeled potato at the sorcerer, who caught it without using his hands. Freya rolled her eyes and plucked it out of the air.

"Okay," Merlin said. "How about this one?" _Did you ever know that you're my hero?... and everything I would like to be?... and I can fly higher than an eagle… 'cause you are the wind beneath my wings…_ He was still grinning. Gwaine snickered. Arthur rolled his eyes and affected to glare. "Not a Whitney Houston fan?" Merlin said, mock-sympathetically.

The music changed again. _When I am down, and oh my soul so weary_… one by one, their friends quieted. _When troubles come, and my heart burdened be… Then I am still and wait here in the silence_… Something changed in Merlin's eyes. All hilarity was gone. _Until you come, and sit a while with me… _ Arthur could see, in his peripheral vision, that Gaius was frozen in place. Gwen wiped a tear away. The two knights in the kitchen were utterly silent.

_There is no life – no life without its hunger… each restless heart beats so imperfectly…_ Merlin would snipe at him verbally, and he'd respond with an insult or a more physical rudeness. _But when you come, and I am filled with wonder… Sometimes, I think I glimpse eternity_…

Arthur didn't look away from his friend – it was like they two were alone, saying something it had always been hard for each of them to say. _I am strong, when I am on your shoulders… You raise me up to more than I can be…_

The song ended, and Arthur cleared his throat. "Merlin," he said. "Thank you." Merlin didn't duck his head in sheepish embarrassment. Instead, he held Arthur's eyes levelly, and nodded.

"I bet," Leon said diplomatically, "that you can't think of one for Gaius, Merlin."

Merlin's gaze shifted to his grandfather, standing over the salad bowl, eyebrow quirked in stern expectation. A sneaky smile tugged at his mouth, and music burst from the radio.

_I said Doctor – doctor! – Mr. MD – doctor! … Now can you tell me, what's ailin' me? _Gaius said, "Merlin," but was obviously trying to hold back a smile. Gwaine and Leon were laughing, trying to finally finish stuffing the turkey. _He said yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, – yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, - yes indeed, all you really need_ - Gwen grabbed Arthur's hand, potato juice or not, and pulled him to the open area between the table and couch, letting her hand slide down his arm in an opening move for swing dancing. _Is good lovin' – Gimme that good good lovin' – Good lovin' – All I need is lovin'- _

Freya copied Gwen, dragging Merlin to join them. _I said baby – baby! – now it's for sure – it's for sure! I got the fever baby – but you've got the cure_… Arthur was surprised to see that Merlin wasn't too bad on his feet. Gwaine let out a wolf whistle and Gwen giggled_. I said_ _yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_ - Arthur watched Merlin spin Freya in a circle, slide back from her til their hands met, then pulled her to him, throwing his head back to laugh happily. _All I need is lovin_!

_You catching this, Destiny_? Arthur wondered. His arms full of his once and future wife, Merlin, his friend and sorcerer, with the love of his life happy – dancing! – at his side. _We're even_.

Almost.

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed (and didn't get thanked in a PM) and fav'ed and followed – you are an inspiration and an encouragement! You helped to make this trip worthwhile, and I'm glad if you enjoyed the ride as well!**


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